


Sins of the Father

by JonStark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 43
Words: 176,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1507784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonStark/pseuds/JonStark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joffrey never died at the Purple Wedding so Tyrion wasn't put on trial for his death nor did he murder his father and lover. Sansa didn't fall into the hands of Littlefinger - though she did fall into bed and babe with Tyrion. </p><p>Spans their life until 318 and it wasn't as clean as they thought it might be with an heir produced for Winterfell and Casterly Rock. </p><p>Also, being Queen does not bode well for Margaery when she struggles to give Joffrey a son at first,monly daughters which he ends up neglecting, only for his eldest to become a sadistic murderess: his ideal child for the Iron Throne whole his only surviving son is the heir he never wanted.</p><p>NOW COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Shape of Things to Come

He pushed inside her, then out. In and out. In and out. It didn’t take long for Tyrion to spill his seed – but he did. He had hoped to pull out in time, but it was futile. Tyrion was afraid of hurting her if he pulled out too quickly. He daren’t hurt such an innocent soul: lying on her back with her legs spread, moaning softly into the crook of his neck. Tyrion kissed his wife softly and pulled back, lying beside her.

His breath was hot against her skin, smelling of wine and garlic from the feast. Sansa never thought she would give herself to her husband: her grotesque little husband who she was revolted at the sight of. Somehow he looked beautiful, lying beside her, sweat sticking his blonde hair to his face, his breathing quickening as he fell asleep. Sansa watched his chest rise and fall with every heartbeat he took.

He wasn’t really sleeping; he just couldn’t stand what she might say to him afterwards.

She knew he wasn’t asleep, but she enjoyed watching him.

***

Tyrion visited her bedchamber the following night. Sansa lounged on the bed, her elbow propping her up by the candle light, reading her book. Tyrion had recommended it to her. It was one of his own, a new one he had purchased a few weeks ago and had read in a record time. He suggested it to Sansa who read very little in comparison to her husband. She read it to please him. It was not a very riveting read, more informal and non fictional than she preferred, but she read it regardless if it pleased him.

“How has your day been?” Tyrion asked.

“Pleasant, thank you.”

Tyrion stripped off his leather boots, pouring a glass of water for himself. "Your handmaiden says you seldom left your room."

"I've been reading, my Lord."

"Tyrion," he corrected. "Is there something the matter?"

 _In general or just today?_ She wondered but would not dare speak it. Instead, she asked him another question: a question that had been prompted by the previous night's events. “Do you want children, Tyrion?”

He looked at her. He could not tell if she was being serious or not. Half expecting her to start laughing, he tentatively edged towards their bed, seating himself on the lounger beside it.

“Do _you_?” She nodded. “Not because it’s your duty, but because you _want_ to?”

“Yes.”

“Even with me?”

Tyrion noticed she hesitated. “You are my husband.”

“I know I am not your first choice, nor your second or your third. Our children would not be as beautiful as yours and Joffrey’s might. If the God’s are cruel, they might curse one of them to be a dwarf. Think carefully when I ask you again if you want children.”

“I used to think beauty was the only thing that mattered,” Sansa admitted. “I was blind to Joffrey’s repulsiveness because he was beautiful. But now I see how wrong I was. You are right in saying that you are not handsome on the outside, but on the inside you are as beautiful as Joffrey. Inside Joffrey, he is as ugly as you.” _She has never spoken to me like this before. Does she truly hate me, or can she confide in me after last night_? “I don’t want you to share my bed again, Tyrion. Not until I ask you to again.”

He was a fool to think she would want him again, as he so badly wanted her.

***

After the small council meeting, Tywin asked for his son to stay behind. He reluctantly obliged. Tywin had rid the room of wine after, and Tyrion was longing for the taste.

“Varys’ little birds tell him that blood was found on your wife’s bed sheets.”

“Really?” Tyrion feigned amusement. “She must have had her moon blood as she slept.”

Tywin was irritated. “I have had a long day, Tyrion. Men say that Jaime is but a three day ride from the Red Keep and I wish to see to it that he is welcomed accordingly. Now answer me: did you finally bed the Stark girl?”

“Yes,” Tyrion grumbled.

“Good. Are you doing your duty as a husband?”

It seemed foreign to Tyrion that he was discussing such topic with his father. “She has not welcomed me back.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrion admitted. “Perhaps my cock was too big for her that she has to spare time to heal.”

***

She rubbed her belly.

She was with _child_.

She had life growing inside her: a tiny little baby she and Tyrion had made together on that one night in bed. She had not bled for two moons, but she thought it was down to fright; she never thought she would be given a child after just _one_ try.

Sansa was overwhelmed, and as she stood in front of the mirror, rubbing her stomach, she felt overcome with a burning desire of love for this child. This _baby_ that was conceived with both of them half drunk and staggering to bed, laughing about how ridiculous the King was at his wedding. They had fallen into each other’s arms and Sansa had asked Tyrion to have her. This was how her baby was made.

***

“My Gods...” Tyrion muttered. “So soon?”

She knew better than to be surprised that he was not overcome with excitement. “Two moons. I’ll give you a baby in seven months and we’ll present him to your father and your sister and the King.”

“If he’s a boy,” Tyrion began. “We can live at Winterfell.”

Sansa beamed and she kissed her little husband on the lips. “It will be a boy. I just know it.”

 

 


	2. Condolences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family of King's Landing are told about Sansa's condition

Tyrion should be delighted at the prospect of having a child, shouldn’t he? He didn’t think so. King’s Landing was a dangerous place, and to bring a child into the world so close to his father, his sister and his nephew... It seemed almost unfair.

 _What if it’s a dwarf?_ Tyrion wondered. That was the first thing he thought when Sansa told him. _I will love him. I would love him more if he was a dwarf. My father might not, but I will._ Sansa would be an excellent mother; their children would be kind and gracious. What could Tyrion teach them? How to belch? How to make witty comebacks? How to out drink every man in Westeros and where to find the best whorehouses? If Tyrion was too afraid to stand up to his father when he ridiculed him, what would he do if Tywin mocked his child? Stand aside. Do nothing.

Laugh?

***

Sansa had the idea that she would call her sons Eddard and Robb and Brandon and Rickon, but being married to a Lannister would prohibit it. Quickly, she came to the realisation her son would be called Tywin or Jaime or Tytos: a Western name at any rate.

“So there’s no chance of naming him after one of my brothers?” Sansa asked Shae her handmaiden. “Even though he’ll be the Lord of Winterfell.”

Shae had been off with Sansa recently. Sansa thought she was disappointed in her for giving herself to Tyrion. “No, my lady.”

“I won’t call him Joffrey,” Sansa decided. “They can’t force me.”

“My lady,” Shae said through gritted teeth. “They can make you do anything. Haven’t you seen that by now?”

Sansa stared lengthily at herself in the mirror. “They can’t,” she whispered, more to reassure herself than argue with Shae. “They didn’t make me Queen.”

***

Tyrion wanted to delay announcing the news of Sansa’s condition as long as possible, but after a while, the signs became more obvious.

Despite Sansa being tall and slim, after three months there was a slight swelling to her belly – very discreet but something _someone_ would notice. Or perhaps he was being paranoid. Then again, he had good reason to be.

“You finally fucked her then?” Was the first thing Bronn said to him when Tyrion informed his friend that Sansa was expecting a child.

“Usually, people say congratulations.”

“I think this time I should give you my condolences.”

Tyrion agreed.

***

He found Sansa resting on the lounger. For winter, it was an extraordinarily hot day. The windows were all opened, the door to the balcony held back by a door and the curtains swayed in the breeze. Sansa looked up when Tyrion entered the room.

“How was the small council?” She asked him.

He shut the door and walked to his wife. “Are we alone?”

“I sent Shae to fetch me some ice so for a short time. Is there something the matter?”

She rose, and he saw on her face she was in pain. “Are you hurt?”

“Not much,” she replied.

She was lying. She was an awful liar. Tyrion sat on the end of the lounger. “Sansa,” he began. “Our baby has been growing inside you for four months. I think it’s time we announced our news.”

“If that’s what you’d like.”

“It’s not what I like: it’s what I have to do. Do you have any ideas on how we should do it?”

“ _We_?”

“As its parents, it should be the two of us to announce the news. We could break our fast with my father, and ask my sister and the King to join them.”

“ _Not Joffrey_ ,” the worry in her voice matched the pain that spread across her face when she moved. “I don’t want to tell Joffrey.”

“I don’t either, but isn’t it better just to get it over with?  Tomorrow, I propose we declare your state and...”

 _She’s frightened. She doesn’t want to go through with it._ The King would find out sooner or later, and nothing could prevent him from saying anything to Sansa. It might provoke him more if they didn’t tell him first.

He planted a kiss on her cheek. “I won’t let Joffrey harm our baby if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Worried,” she seemed to spit the words at him like venom. “He killed my father and called it mercy. He celebrated when my mother and brother were slaughtered. No one can stop him.”

***

Of course she was frightened; the King’s power frightened Tyrion.

Never the less, it had to be done.

Neither Tyrion nor Sansa slept that night, but they made no effort to make conversation. Sansa lay on her side, facing away from Tyrion, her hand gently placed on her stomach, feeling for any movement from the baby, and Tyrion stared at the stone floor, dreading their proclamation.

Rumours spread that Joffrey and Margaery were unable to have children. Tyrion doubted it was Margaery’s fault, but Joffrey was the product of his parent’s incestuous relationship, and if he did conceive a child, it would likely not last to live through winter.

***

On the morn that they would make the announcement, Sansa rose early and summoned her handmaiden who bathed her, dressed her and styled her hair in silence, while Tyrion was dressed in the other room.

This was the day that Sansa dreaded most. When she imagined telling everybody that she was expecting a baby in her dreams, she had bounded through the halls and thrown a celebratory dinner in their honour, and her husband and she would stand up in front of everybody and he would kiss her on the cheek and tell everybody they were going to be having a baby. Everybody would be thrilled. Everybody would be happy. But this was King’s Landing, and dreams never came true for Sansa.

***

When Sansa and Tyrion arrived to break their fast, the room was empty. Food was laid out for them: bread, oats, dates, dried fruit, jams, honeys, milk, water and other little things in wooden bowls. They seated themselves in the centre of the table beside each other and waited.

Joffrey was the first to arrive: dressed in emerald silks with golden Baratheon stags: green for Tyrell and gold for Lannister.

“Aunt, Uncle,” Joffrey greeted, sitting himself at the end of the table. “My Queen Margaery is getting dressed. It won’t take her very long; she doesn’t need much doing to make herself look so... _lovely_.”

He looked at Sansa when he spoke. “We are happy to wait as long as Margaery needs,” Tyrion said.

“Sansa! Lord Tyrion!” Upon hearing her name, Margaery appeared from behind two double oak door, wearing a matching green dress to Joffrey’s overcoat with golden lions decorated. She kissed her husband on the cheek and took the seat to his right. “How lovely it is for you to ask us to break our fast with you. Joff, my darling, where’s your mother?”

“She’ll be here soon with Grandfather and Tommen,” Joffrey dismissed. “You look exquisite, my beauty.”

He kissed her hand. _He loves to show her off_ , Tyrion thought. “I do love the fabric of these garments the Tyroshi made for us,” Margaery beamed. “Sansa, you _must_ buy a Tyroshi gown; they are just the most beautiful clothes I have ever seen.”

Sansa smiled. “I’m afraid I cannot do them justice, your Grace.”

“Please Sansa, don’t call me that,” she sounded almost insulted, but her tone of light heartedness made it sound sweet all the same. “Tyrion, do tell your wife that if she starts calling me your Grace, I will start calling her aunt.”

 _She’s clever. She’s much too clever for Joffrey, and far too beautiful_. “I will personally remind her myself.”

As if the cheerful mood was too much for Joffrey to bear, he slammed his knife into the table, startling his guests. “What is _taking them so long_? Ser Meryn! Find my mother and brother and grandfather and bring them here at once.”

Ser Meryn: ever the loyal pet bowed to the King and left the room. Joffrey was in a sour mood. This perhaps could wait another day.

***

Tommen, Cersei and Tywin arrived and Joffrey took no time in devouring his breakfast.

Tommen asked Margaery if she could take him hawking one day, to which Joffrey was greatly offended. Tyrion and Tywin discussed some matters Sansa didn’t understand entirely, so Sansa was left with Lady Cersei, who, before noon, was already drinking wine.

Sansa cut up her food in small pieces and tried a little of everything. It all made her stomach turn, so she nibbled on some bread and honey, washed down with some iced water. She ate as little as her husband and didn’t say a word throughout until Margaery discussed with her the Tyroshi gowns her father had brought her.

“They are extraordinary,” Margaery gushed. “Of all colours: reds, greens, purples and oranges – and even some fur coats for winter. Sansa, you lived in the North, how cold _does_ it get at winter?”

Sansa had lived through very few winters that she could remember. “The castle is heated, it shouldn’t be very bad.”

“I’ve never seen snow before,” Margaery informed. That seemed strange to Sansa; she could never remember a time in the North when it wasn’t snowing or snow didn’t spread across the roofs and grounds. “I’m quite excited.”

 _Don’t be_ , Sansa thought, _snow is wicked and cold_. But there wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t wish she was back at Winterfell, shivering in the main hall as she dined with her family. _Winterfell_ , she would be there soon if she had a son.

 _This is it,_ Sansa thought. _This is my opportunity to tell them_.

Setting aside her cutlery: “You would be more than welcome to visit Winterfell once Tyrion and I go North.”

“No, no, _no_ ,” Joffrey had stayed silent throughout Margaery and Sansa’s conversation. “You won’t go to Winterfell until you have a _child_ – and you and my Uncle are clearly incapable of producing any children – or even _consummating your marriage_ , it would seem.” Joffrey laughed, and so did his mother.

“Oh really,” Tyrion added to his Nephew. “Is that is so then how is my wife with child?”

***

Sansa regretted it immediately. She regretted it all in that sudden instance: agreeing to go to Winterfell, begging her father to let her wed Joffrey. _All of it_ – the baby included.

There was a silence. No one made a sound. Tommen had been in the process of putting a sausage into his mouth, but he froze: his eyes shifting around the table.

Margaery broke the silence with a gasp. “Oh Sansa! That’s wonderful news!”

It was impossible to say who was the most shocked: Joffrey, Cersei, Tywin or Sansa herself. Margaery took her out of her trance by placing two kisses on both of her cheeks.

“Just imagine! When Joff and I make a child, they can play together in the castle!”

Sansa managed a smile: _my child will be nowhere near Joffrey_.

***

Tyrion watched his father throughout. When Margaery went to embrace Sansa, he heard his father scoff and raised his cup to his lips. _What is going through that bald head of yours, father? Pray do tell_.

Cersei merely laughed and raised a cup to Tyrion. “I see you can do something with that twisted little manhood of yours.”

 _Jaime can clearly do plenty with his_. As a Knight of the Kingsguard, Jaime was not permitted to attend such intimate parties as this. Tyrion would have liked to have told his older brother with the rest of his family, so know he would have to find him and tell him before Cersei or his father did.

Despite their initial reactions, everyone seemed pleased that Sansa was having a child – Margaery most of all. Everyone was pleased, but Sansa.

***

Margaery escorted Sansa out of the room for a stroll around the gardens, and Joffrey left breakfast with his mother and Tommen to go to the sept. That left Tyrion and Tywin: the person Tyrion was most anxious about this whole announcement.

Tywin Lannister was not one to waste time. Once the door was closed behind Joffrey, Tywin spoke to his son.

“So you finally put a child in your wife’s belly?”

Tyrion pursed his lips. “Seemingly so unless she’s bedded someone else without my knowledge.”

“That’s always possible.”

“Is it that hard for you to believe that my wife came willingly to me?”

“Well she isn’t fond of the Lannister’s, is she?”

“Well I couldn’t think why.”

Tyrion cut up his bacon into squares, then picked out and put it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on his father. Tyrion swallowed slowly.

“If the child is a boy, he’ll be Lord of Winterfell once he comes of age.”

“That is correct,” Tywin confirmed.

“Would we be at Winterfell with him, or do you intend to keep Sansa hostage at King’s Landing for the rest of her life?”

“Once the child is of age, you will move with him to Winterfell.”

“That’s not what you originally said,” Tyrion recollected. “You said that once Sansa and I had a son, we could go to Winterfell.”

“You can go to Winterfell temporarily; how is a Lord supposed to control his lands when he has no knowledge of him? Once your son – if it even is a son – is born, you will be allowed to go to Winterfell as you choose. Anywhere, in fact: take Olenna Tyrell up on her offer and take Sansa and your son down to Highgarden; it might be useful to find a powerful and rich Lord’s young daughter to marry him to.”

“It’s lovely that you’re giving Sansa her freedom back,” Tyrion said derisively. “But what if we have a daughter?”

“Then you try again until you have a son, and if that attempt results in another daughter, the cycle continues. I don’t care how many daughters she gives you; a _son_ is what you need if she wants her freedom.”

Tyrion shook his head. “You’re a cruel man: playing with her. Is she nothing more to you than an object that produces babies? Does she not have feelings? Does she not want to be free?”

“I never said any of those things you accuse me of. All I say, is when your son turns sixteen, you and your wife will leave King’s Landing and move to Winterfell after the child has been properly trained on how to rule his lands.”

 _Properly controlled_ , Tyrion corrected in his mind. His wife and child were nothing more to his father than a pawn to play: the key to the North and a future prospect to create new alliances. They are not people to his father. Nothing but people to be played and controlled.

“Are we finished or can I leave?” Tyrion asked.

“Go,” his father commanded. “And set your wife straight on all this business concerning when and where she can go once she has had this child. I’m warning you Tyrion: only when you have a son will your wife truly be free, and even then, don’t think I won’t be controlling the North through your son. I intend to teach him what I could never teach you and Jaime: strength, strategy and _control_.”

Tyrion did not doubt that, he did not doubt that at all.


	3. Life is But a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery longs for a child and Sansa is frightened for the future of hers.

_Margaery so badly wants a son_ , Sansa thought to herself, _it’s killing her_. _She needs one more than me. Joffrey will..._ It was unimaginable what Joffrey would do to his own wife if she could not get him with child. Sansa remembered what he used to do to her before she married Tyrion. Joffrey would likely not humiliate Margaery, but Joffrey was capable of anything. Sansa was frightened he would hurt her friend.

“I will give him a son soon,” Margaery said quietly. “It’s only been four months, and we’ve tried every day that I haven’t had my moon blood on me.”

“I’m certain you will,” Sansa said, “but you know it’s not your fault?”

“It’s not the King’s fault, either.”

She’d have to take the blame regardless; Gods helped her or anyone who blamed Joffrey for his incapability of making a child.

“You’ll give him a son,” Sansa promised her. “King Robert had...” Then Sansa remembered that Robert wasn’t Joffrey’s true father. “Just wait,” was all she could say.

***

After five months of marriage and there was no sign of Margaery’s state improving, men began to talk around the Red Keep that Joffrey would marry again to find a fresher wife. Tyrion knew this was bullshit; they needed the Tyrell alliance as much as the Tyrell’s needed it. If Joffrey didn’t get a child, then it would fall to Tommen to produce one.

The bruise on Margaery’s cheek was as clear as Tyrion’s stature, despite being hidden behind layers of powder. Margaery had told them at breakfast she had fallen out of bed, but the print looked similar to what King Robert would give Cersei.

Like father like son.

***

After dismounting her mare from the long ride from the sept, Sansa saw the Queen approaching the stables. At first, Sansa dismissed the idea that the Queen was going to her, but she was: stepping over a pile of horse manure, Cersei stood before Sansa, her hands grasped together, beaming at Sansa.

“You’re not surely still riding in your condition?” Cersei seemed appalled at the idea.

“Grand Maester Pycelle said it’s good for the baby.”

Sansa’s belly had begun to swell and was double the size than it had been at four months. At five months, none of her gowns fit and she had new ones made – one she even had made from Tyrosh, to please Margaery.

“Grand Maester Pycelle told me when I was with Joffrey to drink the urine of a cat. Don’t pay attention to anything the man says: see Qyburn for any problems.”

“Thank you,” Sansa turned back to her mare, expecting Cersei to leave her.

“Will you walk with me, Sansa?”

“Of course.”

Sansa gave her mare to the stable boy and took Cersei’s arm. To her memory, Sansa had never embraced the Lady Cersei so. A few years ago, Sansa would be trembling in the mere presence of Cersei, and a few years later, she still was.

“What’s it like? My first time with Joffrey was terrible; I was always awake half the night vomiting my guts out. It wasn’t very _regal_ for me.”

“It has its bad times but I know it will be worth it at the end to present my husband Lord Tyrion with a child. It will be such a great honour to spread the Lannister name. It is an honour I do not deserve.”

Cersei gave her a grimace. “Is that so? Tell me, Sansa, and you can speak in close confidence here,” Sansa believed that as much as she believed the sky was green. “The child: is it really my wicked little brother Tyrion’s?”

Sansa was always a terrible liar, but even telling the truth would make her seem as if she was lying. She knew the child was Tyrion’s; she had never been with another man, and Sansa had expected this. No one thought she would ever open her legs to her husband, but she did once, and it resulted in a child.

“Of course it is. I am true and loyal to my Husband and to House Lannister.”

“Of course you are, little dove,” Cersei removed her arm. “You may want to give your little friend Margaery some advice on how she might join you in having a child. She makes my son grow agitated at the delay of having an heir, and if I discover that she had been taking moon tea to prevent herself from falling into such condition, than I shall have her pretty little head mounted on a spike.”

Cersei pecked Sansa on the cheek and stalked off in the opposite direction.

***

Tyrion was shown the chambers that their child would be given. It was a plain room which overlooked Blackwater Bay at the opposite end of Tyrion and Sansa’s quarters. It was a bare room: painted white with no furniture apart from a table in the centre. Tyrion stepped through, looking around.

“Pod, tell Yarvik that I will need new furnishings for the baby – let no expense be spared: I want toys and books and chairs and the best crib that King’s Landing can offer. Tell all the seamstresses of the Capitol that they begin making neutral clothes for the baby which will be delivered on the day of its birth. After that, I want clothes suitable for its gender. Do you understand?”

“Yes my Lord.”

“Good, and keep four men on the door at all times – _trusted_ men. Not Bronn’s sellswords or Lannister’s obeying my father. Men of my own who I can trust. This is my first child and it could well be my last, I want no expenses spared.”

Tyrion put his hands on his hips and he circled the room, clicking his tongue.

***

“I think congratulations are in order, little brother.”

Tyrion was walking towards the Red Keep in dull anticipation for yet another small council meeting. Tyrion spun on his heels. Jaime had been back for perhaps a few moons, but they had not spoken since Sansa declared she was with child.

“Some people offer their condolences,” Tyrion informed.

Jaime paced the remainder of the corridor to catch up with Tyrion. He was dressed in his Kingsguard white cloak, the sword father game him shining in its sheath. The two Lannister brothers continued walking.

“I suppose you’ll be going to Winterfell if Sansa should have a boy,” Jaime asked.

“I believed so too, but we won’t be going until the boy comes of age. Don’t make that public knowledge though; even my wife is oblivious to it.”

“Do you want it to be a boy?”

“As long as it’s not a dwarf I wouldn’t mind.”

“You turned out alright.”

Tyrion laughed. “But I know it’s no fun being mocked for what I am; I wouldn’t want anybody else to suffer it – especially not my child. How’s our beloved Nephew?”

Jaime scoffed. “It will only be a short while before he runs out of patience with Queen Margaery. Joffrey has always been an intolerant boy; once he’s played with his toys long enough he’ll cast it aside and set out for a new one.”

“I’d like to disagree with you, but dear Joff isn’t the smartest when it comes to strategy. Margaery will pull his strings some way or another.”

“Or her Grandmother will.”

“Mhm,” Tyrion agreed.

The brothers walked in silence for a bit until Jaime spoke again. “Are you needed urgently for father and the King?” Jaime asked.

“The King won’t be there and father would rather I wasn’t. Why?”

“I have something to do. Assist me.”

“As you wish.”

Jaime lead Tyrion towards the stables, where a large group were saddling up horses. Tyrion recognised none of them, and Jaime Lannister walked through them all, the crowd parting for them until they reached the centre of the party.

"Steelshanks!" Jaime called. "Are you off, then?"

“As soon as m'lady is mounted," said Steelshanks Walton. "My lord of Bolton expects us. Here she is now."

A groom led a fine grey mare out the stable door. On her back was mounted a skinny hollow-eyed girl wrapped in a heavy cloak. Grey, it was, like the dress beneath it, and trimmed with white satin. The clasp that pinned it to her breast was wrought in the shape of a wolf's head with slitted opal eyes. The girl's long brown hair blew wild in the wind. She did not look bad, Tyrion noted, but her eyes were sunken and unfamiliar.

When the girl saw Jaime, she nodded her head. “Ser Jaime, you are king to see me off.”

Jaime studied her. “You know me, then?”

She bit her lip. "You may not recall, my lord, as I was littler then... but I had the honour to meet you at Winterfell when King Robert came to visit my father Lord Eddard." She lowered her big brown eyes and mumbled, "I'm Arya Stark."

 _This is not Arya Stark_ , Tyrion thought at once. He remembered Arya: a small and skinny girl with a hollow face. This girl was much older and prettier too. Tyrion remembered her having no distinction to Sansa and this girl had less so.

“I understand you’re to be married."

"I am to wed Lord Bolton's son, Ramsay. He used to be a Snow, but His Grace has made him a Bolton. They say he's very brave. I am so happy."

"I wish you joy, my lady." Jaime turned back to Steelshanks. "You have the coin you were promised?"

"Aye, and we've shared it out. You have my thanks." The Northman grinned. "A Lannister always pays his debts."

“Always,” said Jaime.

Together they watched them ride off, Tyrion with much amusement. Once the last rider was out of earshot, Tyrion turned to Jaime.

“How did you manage to pull this one off, brother? The girl is as much Arya Stark as I am.”

Jaime shrugged. “The Bolton’s wouldn’t know Arya Stark from Sansa Stark. Father found some skinny northern girl more or less the same age with more or less the same colouring. He dressed her up in white and grey, gave her a silver wolf to pin her cloak, and Arya Stark is likely buried in an unmarked grave in Fleabottom. With her brothers and parents dead, who would dare name her a fraud?”

“And if the Bolton’s find out we married them to a fraud?”

“Lannister’s lie, remember?” Jaime prompted. “The only person who would know it isn’t Arya Stark is your wife, and if the news should reach her then... You’ll tell her something clever. Tell her that we’re sending the girl to keep her sister safe. You’ll think of something; you’re clever, Tyrion.”

“In a few years Sansa and I and our child will travel North to visit Winterfell and Sansa will recognise her to not be her sister.”

“The Bolton’s aren’t stupid enough to let the ‘ _sisters’_ be reunited. The bastard will take her to the Dreadfort once you arrive. Father already wrote this to Bolton.”

 _They should have told me about this; I am his son and his brother._ He bore no grudge though; it was a good plan. If they kept the Bolton’s loyal they would remain loyal when their son rode North to become the Warden. If they were lucky, their son might marry ‘Arya’ and Ramsay’s daughter and he might keep them in the castle. It was a good plan, but already, Tyrion could see the flaws.


	4. To Accept is to Forgive

She ached everywhere.

Ladies always told her that the time spent with a child in her womb was the best time of their lives, but Sansa was always sick, her back ached, her head always throbbed and she wanted it to be over. Lords and Ladies at the castle threw names at her, suggesting what their child will be called. Most of them wished for her to name the child after them or their first born. A lot of them hinted at marriages between the children. Sansa politely declined her all. _My child will not be married off like I was; they will fall in love and marry like my brother Robb did_. When she told Tyrion he gave her a small smile and patted her hand. They all still treated her like a little girl, but she wasn’t anymore.

She was a woman: flowered and carrying a child inside her. Though she was only fourteen she possessed the wisdom and experience that women double her age lacked. If anything, Sansa thought her youth was important, mostly because she would be able to protect her children for longer.

The sixth month was her worst. Though she no longer was sick, she could feel the baby moving inside: kicking, squirming and jolting around. It was magical at first, but when it kept her awake at night and gave her constant pain, she hated it. Maester Qybrun offered her potions but Sansa refused to take any in fear of harming her precious baby.

The baby sometimes seemed to be battling itself out. The worst time had been when Joffrey had asked her to walk with him around the gardens. He took her by the arm once they reached the hot son and the child pushed itself against Sansa’s stomach. She put a hand to it, and Joffrey looked at her.

“Is the child moving?” She nodded. “Can I feel it?”

Sansa didn’t want Joffrey to touch her, let alone feel her baby. But he was the King and he would get his own way. She removed her arm from his and placed his hand against her stomach. He chuckled when the baby kicked against his hand.

“It’s strange that we were like that once, isn’t it?”

 _No rude comment? No attempt to grope her? Was this King Joffrey_? “It is your Grace,” she agreed.

He took her arm again. “My Margaery has already ordered a nightdress to be made for your child from the seamstresses at Highgarden. But you mustn’t tell her that I’ve told you of course; it’s to be a surprise.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

Joffrey gave her a taunting smile now. “It’s a shame it was my Uncle who put a child in you instead of me. I know you always hoped you would bear the King’s child and not the Imp’s. There’s still time though, of course.”

 _You can’t even get your own wife with child. You couldn’t get me with one even if you bedded me one hundred times. I would take moon tea before I allowed you to poison me with your seed._ Sansa simply said nothing. Joffrey pulled her to a stop. They stood in front of a rose bush and the King studied it for a moment. He laughed and plucked a rose and handed it to Sansa. When she reached out to take it, Joffrey grabbed her wrist, digging his fingernails into it sharp enough to draw blood. At that moment, her child began lurching itself inside her. She would have screamed if she wasn’t so terrified.

“If you think that by having a son you can escape me and avenge your family,” began the King. “Then I’ll slit your child’s throat before your eyes and make you drink its blood.”

Then Joffrey smiled and kissed Sansa on the cheek.

***

Joffrey arrived at the small council meeting late. It was a surprise if he ever turned up, but there were matters Joffrey had to take care of.

It seemed to take hours: watching Joffrey with his ink pot and quill scrawling the declarations his Grandfather ordered him too.

"This is a bill of attainder against Lord Edmure Tully, stripping him of Riverrun and all its lands and incomes, for rebelling against his lawful king. This is a similar attainder, against his uncle Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish."

“We should have him killed, not attained and stripped of his rights,” Joffrey murmured. “Take his head and mount it on a spike next to his sister’s.”

“Lady Catelyn’s body was thrown in the river,” Ser Kevan Lannister informed. “She has not been found since.”

Tywin pressed on. "This grants said lands, incomes, and castle to Ser Emmon Frey and his lady wife, Lady Genna. This is a decree of legitimacy for a natural son of Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. And this names Lord Bolton your Warden of the North until Lord Tyrion’s child comes of age. This grants Ser Rolph Spicer title to the castle Castamere and raises him to the rank of lord. This is a pardon for Lord Jonos Bracken of Stone Hedge. This is a pardon for Lord Vance. This for Lord Goodbrook. This for Lord Mooton of Maidenpool."

Joffrey scribbled and scrawled and after each name declared that all these people should be put to death. After a while, Joffrey kept his mouth closed and just wrote what he was told to. Tyrion needed no part in this, so left halfway through.

***

She was terrified – _actually,_ she was petrified.

Sansa knew that her sons life was at risk, but didn’t realise how much so until the King spoke to her, saying it in his own voice.

She returned to her chambers shaking like a leaf, sweating and in agonising pain. She ordered her hand maidens to leave her alone, to get out and not let anyone in her room and once everybody had cleared out, she fell onto her bed and sobbed.

After what seemed like hours, lying on her back, tears streaming down her face with her child battling inside of her, Queen Margaery entered her room, who with one look at Sansa, rushed to her bedside.

“Sansa? Sansa is something the matter?”

 _Your husband threatened to kill my son,_ Sansa thought in her mind. _He is a monster. Why can’t you see that_? Of course she couldn’t tell Margaery this; Joffrey would surely kill her child before it was born if she did. So Sansa wiped the tears from her eyes and sat up in bed.

“I feel terrible,” Sansa lied.

Margaery looked concerned. “What is it? What have you done?”

Sansa actually laughed. _I have done nothing, that is it_. “I’m in pain. I’m in pain all the time. Anyone who says having children is a blessing are liars. It’s torture.”

Margaery gave her a smile and wiped the tears from her eyes. “That’s a shame,” Margaery simpered, then grabbed her hand. She flinched, expecting her to dig her fingernails into her like her husband, but instead, the young Queen held her wrist gently. “Sansa, I have the most wonderful news, and I just had to tell you first! The King doesn’t even know so you must keep this a secret.”

 _How many secrets must I be sworn to keep from them_? “I promise I won’t tell him.”

“Do you swear on your life?”

 _My life means nothing anymore_. “I promise on my life.”

The Margaery beamed and whispered in her ear: “I’m giving the King a son!”

***

Tyrion held the bouncing baby boy in his arms. He had longed to meet the child since Bronn wrote to him from Stokeworth a few months previous to report that his wife had given birth to her bastard son. The little boy was small and chubby with a thick lock of brown hair like his mother and gurgled and laughed when Tyrion bounced him in his arms.

“He’s a spritely child,” Tyrion noted with a grin. “And how is Lollys?”

Bronn shrugged. “She keeps herself to herself. Reluctant to let me fuck her, but then again... Anyone would be worn out after being raped fifty times.”

“And having a child as fat as this one.”

“That’s my son you’re insulting, imp,” Bronn remarked from Tyrion’s bed, lunging back, propped up on one elbow with a cup of wine in his hand.

“Will he call you father as he gets older?”

“If he wants. He’ll know he’s a bastard anyway unless he’s as simple as his mother and won’t notice that Tanner isn’t the same as Stokeworth, poor bastard.”

“Well with a name like Tyrion I hope the Gods grace him with the brains I was given.”

“Any idea what you’ll name your child?”

Tyrion had none. Sansa had expressed her desire to name their children after her dead family members, have sons named Eddard and Robb and Brandon and Rickon, daughters called Catelyn and Arya and Lyanna. Tyrion had told her that was impossible, to which Sansa snapped that she already knew, and if he could leave her alone to wish.

“Probably some god damn awful name like Tywin or Joffrey.”

“You could always return the favour and call him Bronn?”

“If it’s a boy. I’m hoping for a girl.”

“Why?”

“To piss off the Realm.”

Bronn laughed and raised a cup. “To the new Lady of Lannister.”

“Mhm.”

After Bronn and Tyrion dined on wine and cheese with Tyrion Tanner sleeping softly on Sansa and Tyrion’s feather bed, at evening after dining with Queen Margaery, Sansa arrived from dinner, dressed in Tyrell green as to please the Royal Highness.

“My Lady,” Bronn noted.

Sansa nodded her head. “Ser.”

“How was your dinner with the Queen?” Tyrion asked.

Sansa ignored her husband. “Please give your wife my best wishes,” she said to Bronn, “I am very pleased she had a quick and painless birth, and it is good to see you in the capitol. Do you know how long you will stay?”

“Until Friday when I will return to Stokeworth,” Bronn replied.

“May the Gods bless you with a safe ride.”

Tyrion looked at his wife uncertainly. _There is something else wrong. She is worried. She looked frightened._ So he asked her, to which she looked hesitantly at Bronn.

“Later.”

“I can go if-” Bronn began, taking a step to leave the room.

“Please do,” Sansa said.

Recently, Sansa’s confidence had risen. She was no longer the shy girl who came to the capitol a year ago in pursuit to marry Prince Joffrey: she was a lady with a child inside her: wise beyond her years and damaged, too. She spoke with grace and courtesy at court but with Tyrion, she was as bad as him: sharing gossip about the Lords and Ladies at court and expressing her opinions and feelings about everything and anything. They acted like a married couple should at court, and Tyrion was pleased to say alone, too. Except in bed; Sansa had never welcomed him back since they conceived their child.

“Well?” Tyrion asked once Bronn left the room, his brow furrowed in concern.

Rushed: “The Queen is having a baby. She is four moons gone and unaware until now. I fear the baby will be born disfigured or die and Joffrey will get angry with Margaery and beat her. She promised me not to tell anyone but I’m frightened, Tyrion; she doesn’t realise what Joffrey is capable of unlike you and I. I want to help her, but I’m _scared_.”

She was close to tears and had good reason to be. Tyrion got off the chair he had previously occupied and held Sansa’s hands in his own when she began to cry. Tyrion offered himself to comfort her and she gratefully accepted his comfort, and later on that night, accepted him in her bed for the second time in their marriage.

***

 _She knows exactly what he is capable of,_ Tyrion noted the following morning. He and Sansa had received word from one of Margaery’s ladies that they had been invited to break their fast with the King and Queen. _She knows how to control him too and how to tame him: something Cersei never could._

Cersei was the first to arrive, drinking heavily, her breathe already smelling thick with wine. Margaery’s brother Ser Loras was present too, as well as Jaime, Tywin and Tommen and Sansa. The latter and her husband of course knew what the invitation was for, but acted surprised ever the same.

“In five months your new King will be born!”

 _He is as certain he will have an heir as everyone is about us._ Tyrion hoped the Gods cursed him with a healthy baby girl.

“We must get preparations in order,” Tywin remarked. “I shall write to all the Lords and Ladies of the Realm and welcome them in five months once your child is born where you will present him to the court.”

Margaery simply smiled and accepted all the blessings she received from her new family. Tyrion had never seen his Nephew so happy. He was grinning like the cat that got the milk. He didn’t deserve to be happy, not after everything that happened to them. Tyrion wanted to disgrace Joffrey by giving him only daughters so the crown would fall to Tommen: a kind boy who would make a good King.

***

With the news of the expectance of a Prince or Princess, Tywin wrote his letters. Writing to the forty-six houses of the Westerlands excluding the Lannister’s took the entire day. The Queen would write to her father who would spread the news for the South. Tomorrow, Lord Tywin would start to write to the other five Kingdoms, keeping Dorne from last.

Once the final invitation was written, Tywin summoned his squire to fetch forty-six riders and have them deliver the letters personally to each Lord of his holdfast; ravens were too unreliable. Lord Tywin leaned back and flexed his fingers, and took his quill and began to write another letter.

_Ser Baelor Hightower,_

_I, Lord Tywin, Hand of the King, Lord of the Westerlands, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock and Shield of Lannisport do write to you, Ser Baelor Hightower of Hightower._

_I personally invite you to the celebration to the new Prince or Princess that King Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon, the First of his name, and Queen Margaery of the Houses Tyrell and Baratheon, shall have in the forthcoming five moons._

_In writing to you, I also desire to have you wed to my eldest daughter: the former Queen Regent Lady Cersei of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon and mother to the King._

_If you wish to accept, write us back and ride to the capitol at once where your marriage will be blessed under the Sept of Baelor._

_Many Regards, Lord Tywin Lannister_  
Hand of the King  
Lord of the Westerlands  
Warden of the West  
Lord of Casterly Rock   
Shield of Lannisport.  
  


He sent his squire back with this letter once all the others had been delivered to their riders. “This letter is to be sent to the most trusted of riders. Tell the rider that if he returns _with_ Lord Hightower he will receive twenty gold dragons.”

“I should take it myself, my Lord Hand,” his squire said half-heartedly.

Tywin’s eyes flashed. “Do that,” he began. “And I’ll give you forty.”


	5. The Power of Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin gives Cersei an ultimatum, Sansa prays to all the Gods and learns something about her servant.

The look on Cersei’s face when their father told her she would marry Lord Baelor Hightower was enough to satisfy Tyrion for the rest of his life. To say she was horrified was an understatement. With Jaime gone to lift the seize of Riverrun, there was no one left to stop their father from marrying Cersei – marrying Cersei off too well for Tyrion’s liking; the Hightower’s were one of the most powerful houses of the Seven Kingdoms. They were possibly the most powerful after the Houses who ruled the Seven Kingdoms. They were also Southern and were cast out on an island. It was one way to separate Cersei from Joffrey.

“You think you can sell me like a common whore you are wrong! Joffrey and Tommen are my _sons_ , you cannot part me from them as you did Myrcella. Please, father, don’t make me marry him!”

She sounded like a little girl. She sounded like Myrcella when she begged her mother not to let her go to Dorne. “You will be closer to Myrcella at Oldtown. I am certain Lord Baelor would allow Prince Tommen to stay with you for lengthy periods of time.”

“I shall not marry him! I am a woman, not a whore and I will not be sold.”

“I can have you marry Prince Oberyn,” Lord Tywin reasoned.

“A _second_ son.”

Tyrion scoffed. “He has too many bastards for Cersei’s liking; she could not kill them all. They all reside in Dorne; they are out of your reach.”

“I am the Queen!” Cersei shouted. She was fortunate that it was only the three of them in attendance. “ _Anyone_ is within my reach.”

“You are not Queen any longer,” Tywin reminded. “Margaery is now.”

“That little whore: she couldn’t rule a fucking garden let alone an entire kingdom. She controls my son with her cunt. She manipulates him. Please father, don’t send me to Oldtown; I need to protect my son.”

“The King will be under my protection here-”

“-Your protection,” Cersei spat. “You’d protect him as much you’d protect some fucking peasants in Fleabottom. You use Joffrey for power – you _all_ use him. None of you love him, _I_ am the only one who loves him and he loves me; I am his mother. When he hurt himself in the Throne Room he cried for me. He didn’t care what anyone else thought he wanted me to protect him and I did. I shielded him from Robert and I’ll shield him from you. I would rather _die_ than be taken away from Joff and Tommen. On the morrow I will write to those bastards at Dorne and demand my daughter Myrcella back and there is nothing you can do to stop me. I love my children and I will not give Oldtown an heir.”

Tywin looked tedious but Tyrion enjoyed this display. “Lord Baelor is riding for King’s Landing and you will marry him.”

“I WILL NOT!” She screamed. She threw her hands down on the table.

“You are my daughter and you will do as I command,” their father’s voice was on the borderline of shouting.

Hissing: “If you make me marry Lord Hightower, I will take Joff and Tommen in their beds and leave King’s Landing and you will _never_ find us.”

“You wouldn’t,” Tywin merely stated.

“I will,” Cersei warned. “And if I do marry Lord Baelor expect it to be a short marriage; I’ll poison him in his bed before he can fuck me. I’ll poison him in front of the whole fucking realm because I WILL NOT MARRY HIM.”

“Don’t marry him then,” said Tywin coolly.

“I don’t intend to.”

“I’ll send Tommen off to marry then,” Cersei glared at her father. “There’s Asha Greyjoy. I’ll offer Prince Tommen to the Greyjoy’s to keep the peace, or I might offer him to Stannis Baratheon for his daughter Shireen.”

“Stannis would murder Tommen in his sleep you wouldn’t send him to his death.”

“I’m sure Mance Rayder has a few daughters to spare. Or what about the Targaryen girl across the Narrow Sea? She is little older than Tommen. Should I write to one of her advisors and offer the little Prince to her? No?”

“I wouldn’t let you.”

“I could send Tommen off to marry anybody as easily as you claim to steal him and the King in their beds and take them out of King’s Landing with you. Now you _will_ marry Lord Baelor or I’ll scatter Tommen to the other side of Westeros.”

Cersei slammed her hand on the table. “I will marry Lord Baelor on the condition that we stay in the capitol.”

“Fine,” Tywin said evenly.

Cersei shook her head in disdain and fled the room, slamming the door behind her. Tywin’s face stayed neutral as he flicked through some papers that lay before him.

“Prince Oberyn would be a reasonable marriage: Cersei would accept because she’d be at King’s Landing and close to Myrcella if they returned to Dorne. And what about Willas Tyrell?”

“Willas Tyrell is marrying Jeyne Westerling. He met her at a Tourney in the South and was apparently quite smitten with her after she gave him her favour.”

Tyrion started to laugh. “Has the boy been oblivious to the war?” Tyrion grabbed the table. “She was – she was-”

“-Yes, I know,” Tywin remarked impatiently. “Your sister had a similar reaction, as did Kevan and King Joffrey. The King thought it too funny to punish Willas for. Hopefully the girl will have better luck with this husband than her last.”

“Gods,” Tyrion breathed. “Cersei’s leaving King’s Landing and the Tyrell boy is wedding Robb Stark’s widow.”

“Yes,” Tywin agreed. “And you and Sansa have been invited to the wedding.”

“That will be a joyous day for all.”

“And you will go. They marry four months after your child will be born. The Lady Olenna wrote to me personally asking you and your wife and child to attend.”

Tyrion’s laughter faded. “So Sansa’s to watch her sister-in-law to marry a man that she was supposed to marry, and probably would be much happier with?” Tywin nodded. “Like I said: that will be a joyous day for all.”

***

That day, Cersei sent Gregor Clegane with the demands to murder Baelor Hightower before he reached King’s Landing.

Within five weeks, Baelor Hightower was dead.

***

Sansa seldom prayed in the sept, but when she did, she addressed each of the Seven Gods in turn.

_Father, give my father and Robb and Bran and Rickon strength and wisdom in heaven. If I have a son, let he be brave like them. Mother Above, see that when my time comes that I have a son and he will be healthy and loved and no harm will come to him. For the sake of Queen Margaery, give her a son too and let him be healthy and a better King than his father. Warrior, give my son courage and give my husband some too. Shield Arya from harm if she is still alive as I want you to shield my child. Maiden: keep Margaery safe from Joffrey and a daughter if she might bare one before a son. Bless the Smith for rebuilding my home at Winterfell for when my son will rule there as Lord as graciously as my father once did. Please fix poor Jeyne Westerling’s heart if she is to have a happy marriage with Ser Willas as she did with my brother. Crone, give me wisdom in these dark times and show me the path I must make to become a good mother and to protect my children from the darkness. And Stranger, shelter my children from death._

She stood up, clutching her stomach and rubbed it. “Next month, I will hold you in my arms and whisper to you that I love you.”

But that time would come sooner than expected, for Sansa keeled over in the sept, screaming.

***

Sansa was returned to the castle in a litter, trying impossibly hard to act the well respected lady as she travelled through the streets of King’s Landing in the public eye.

Lead through the castle, she clutched her stomach and begged for it to stop. The pain was worse than anything Sansa had felt in the past eight months: she was leaking water all down her skirts and she had never been so uncomfortable. Finally, she was laid back on her bed, her cushions around her and midwives on their way.

She wanted to sleep, but the pain kept her awake.

“Shae,” Sansa gasped. “Have they found my husband?”

“No, my Lady.”

Why did she want him there? But in these minutes she found herself screaming that she wanted him there beside her to hold her hand. He came to her, hours later, matted in mud and stinking of sweat; he had been hunting with the King.

“Sansa,” Tyrion ran to her bedside before getting changed. The pain had subsided; Maester Qyburn had given her some milk of the poppy which had eased the pain and she felt light headed. He took her hand and kissed it. “I returned as soon and as quickly as I could. How are you?”

“I’m not in pain anymore,” she said loftily, “Shae, tell him how good I’ve been.”

Tyrion glanced at Shae. He had stayed clear of her for the past few months; he could not let temptation be so close to him when he intended to stay honest to his wife.

“She was been wonderful, my Lord.”

There were no lies in her words. “I’m sorry,” he said to Shae but looked at Sansa as if those words were to her, “for leaving you.”

His wife said nothing, and Shae gave him a small smile. “It’s understandable, my Lord. You had other engagements.”

 _She’s clever,_ Tyrion thought, _speaking for Sansa._ Sometimes, Tyrion missed Shae when he lay awake at night yearning for the girl who slept softly beside him, but when Sansa was awake, and the time Tyrion enjoyed with her made him forget Shae. A task he thought would be difficult.

Sansa drifted off to sleep a while later. Tyrion summoned Pod to dress him and Shae remained by Sansa’s side like a loyal handmaiden. Tyrion dismissed Pod and gestured for Shae to join him on the lounger.

“Will she have the baby today?” Tyrion asked.

“The midwives think not,” Shae told. “Early tomorrow maybe. Qyburn gave her milk of the poppy to send her to sleep so she wouldn’t suffer for so long. She’ll wake in an hour or too I suppose and then she’ll start to labour. But this isn’t why you called me over here, is it Tyrion?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“It’s alright,” she spoke softly. “I don’t blame you.”

“Yes you do; you resent me.”

“At first. I hated you when I discovered you had put a child in Sansa – and I hated her, too. I wanted to strangle the three of you, baby included. But you’ve grown to love her, haven’t you?”

“I don’t love her.”

“I see it in your eyes,” gently, she raised his chin. “It was the same look you used to give me. She is very young and beautiful and about to present you with a child. How could you not be in love with her?”

 _Something’s happened,_ Tyrion thought, _Shae would never act like this unless something was different._ “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I’m leaving Sansa’s service soon,” she reported. “When you and her go to Highgarden for Lord Tyrell’s wedding, I will not be returning with you. Sansa wrote to Lady Jeyne asking that she take me on as handmaiden: a wedding present from her.”

“Why would she do that?”

Shae smiled sweetly. “She knows.”

“How?”

“She always knew,” Shae continued. “She must have heard rumours: saw the looks we gave each other. When she confronted me a few months back she wanted me to be honest, and I was. Lady Sansa was never angry, but grateful because I had stopped you from drinking and whoring as much as you used to,” to which Tyrion laughed. “She’s a sweet girl and she wants me to go to Highgarden to keep me safe from your father and your sister, but also to have a better life than in the capitol. She doesn’t want you to know that she knows. Don’t tell her.”

“I won’t,” Tyrion whispered. Shae kissed him on his cheek and stood up from the lounger. Tyrion took her hand. “I truly loved you once, my Lady.”

“And I you, my lion of Lannister.”

***

Sansa woke a few hours into the following day in agonising pain. The milk of the poppy had numbed her senses to allow her to sleep, but once she was conscious, the pain seared her body and she howled like the wolf inside her. Tyrion, she had been sleeping in a chair beside her, jolted awake, jumping to her side, clutching her hand. Midwives rushed in, pulling her legs apart and commanded that she pushed.

“Now?” Sansa gasped.

“Now,” confirmed a midwife. “Push – nice and big – good, my Lady.”

Sansa pushed with all her might, screaming as she did so, probably waking everybody in King’s Landing, but she was past caring now. She gripped Tyrion’s hand, her fingernails clawing into him as she attempted to bring their baby into the world.

“Another push – there you go – there’s the head!”

She wasn’t excited; she just wanted it to be over. Without being told, Sansa began to push, then push again.

“You’re doing fantastically,” Tyrion told her throughout. “Bloody brilliant. Fucking excellent. Come on Sansa! You can do it!”

When the baby was crowning, Sansa shook her head. Her red hair was plastered to her face, her breath quick, hot and fast: her face yellow and eyes wide with fear.

“I-I can’t! It hurts!”

“Yes you can! This is nothing compared to everything else,” Tyrion glanced to the midwives who were too busy looking up Sansa’s cunt to pay attention. “This baby is your father’s execution. This baby is your mother and brother and Arya and Bran and Rickon and Jon Snow. Do it for them. Think about how proud Jon will be when he learns he has a Niece or Nephew. You could see him again! Would you like to see Jon again?” Sansa nodded. “And Winterfell! You can see Winterfell and Highgarden – what about Casterly Rock? Give me one strong, push and I will give you everything. You’ve come so far, don’t give up now.”

Sansa began to tremble. “H-Help me.”

“It will all be over,” Tyrion put a hand to her clammy face. “We’ll do it together. One, two, three-”

Together, they pushed and a screaming baby boy covered in blood was pulled from Sansa.


	6. Heir to Casterly Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin writes his will, Sansa and Tyrion are deceived by Tywin and they name their son.

In his solar, Tywin Lannister composed a letter.

_This is the word and will of Tywin of the House Lannister, the First of his Name, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Saviour of the City and Hand of the King. I do hereby command that the first born son of Tyrion and Sansa of the Houses Stark and Lannister, shall be named Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West upon my death._

Tywin signed at the bottom of the page and folded up the decree.

***

Sansa cried when she learned she had birthed a boy. She probably would have cried if she had a girl too; anything that got rid of the pain would have made her cry. But primarily, she cried because she had done her duty: she had provided Winterfell with an heir and would be free to travel and visit as she chose.

The midwife handed her son to Sansa after they cleaned the blood off him and wrapped him in swaddling. When she held her son she was overcame with love for him. She didn’t think she could love a Lannister, but with the writhing child in her arms gazing up at her with his big blue eyes, she couldn’t help but love him.

***

They gave him to Sansa first and after a short while she gave him to Tyrion. Tyrion stood up with him and rocked him in his arms. Like his wife, upon seeing his son for the first time a sudden rush of affection for the baby swarmed him. His son looked up at him with his sapphire eyes, acknowledging that he knew who he was, that he recognised him and loved him. Tyrion kissed their son on the top of his thin wisps of dark blonde hair.

Tyrion didn’t know what dwarf babies looked like, but he was certain his son wasn’t a dwarf. Though the child was small, this was probably the result to him being born one month early. Tyrion also had a deformed face with a crooked nose and mismatched eyes, but the child had Sansa’s nose and pale blue eyes which all babies were born in. Perhaps in a few weeks the child would have one green eye and one brown eye like his father. Tyrion grinned at the prospect; he thought his son would look very good with different shades of eye colour.

***

She wouldn’t let anyone else in the room with them once her son was born. Sansa dismissed all the midwives and all her handmaidens and invited Tyrion to lie on her bed with her. They shared the weight of the baby between them: watching him sleep and cry and gurgle and laugh. Her husband gave their son a rattle, to which he batted it away.

The night slipped away from them and soon it was dawn and people would arrive to see him. The small family cherished those few hours together for the rest of their lives, despite their son being too young to remember, Sansa and Tyrion would always remember the tranquilly and peace people would give them when their child was first born. After that, people would swarm them, wanting to see the baby and they would long for their private moments in their chambers together.

***

The first to arrive was his father, earlier than Tyrion would have allowed. He walked straight to the bed and Tyrion saw that he was holding something in his hand as he walked.

“Let me see him.”

 _Let you check if he’s a dwarf you mean_ , Sansa handed him to Tywin and for a few seconds he held the boy in his arms and then passed him back to his mother.

“I need you to sign this.”

Tyrion took the paper from his Lord father. At first, he expected it to be a decree that his son is allowing Roose Bolton to rule Winterfell in his stead until he comes of age. However, when Tyrion unrolled the paper and saw it was a decree that his son would one day be Lord of the West instead of the North, Tyrion threw it at his father.

“You can fuck yourself with that,” Tyrion alerted. “You already have an heir.”

“Jaime is a Knight of the Kingsguard which bans him from claiming any lands or titles or holdfasts. You are my second heir and I will absolutely not have you run Casterly Rock to the ground. The child you hold in your arms will be Warden of the West: a boy who will rule through my saying and be trained, by me, on how to do so. Now you will sign this paper or I will have to force you to.”

“You said our child would be Lord of Winterfell. If you’re _that_ desperate for an heir then go and make another son. Leave mine alone.”

Tywin looked bored. “Surely you have the intelligence to know a good opportunity when it arises,” he addressed Sansa. “Through this your sons will rule the North and the West and together you will have power over half of Westeros. If was not difficult for you to bear a son first, I am certain you can do it again. I need both of you to sign this decree, and I will not leave until you do. One way or another, you’ll name your son my heir.”

“I won’t,” Tyrion countered.

“Tyrion,” Sansa said softly. “Sign it.”

***

The look Lord Tywin gave her was identical to the same Joffrey gave her when he threatened her in the garden a few months ago. Either they would sign the decree, naming their son the heir to the West, or Tywin would do something terrible to him to make his parents sign.

Sansa took the quill from her bedside and signed the paper promptly. She held it to Tyrion.

“ _Tyrion,_ ” she whispered. “ _Please_.”

Tyrion did as his wife said so, signing the decree and threw it back at his father. He looked satisfied.

“Have you decided on a name for the son?” Sansa knew what she wanted to call him, but it was impossible to do so. “As he will be Lord of the Westerlands, give him a _Western_ name.”

“Like Tywin?” Tyrion spat.

“We will continue this discussion when your level of maturity doesn’t match your son’s.” And without another word, Lord Tywin promptly left the room.

***

Tyrion stared at Sansa when he was gone. “Why did you sign that?”

“What else were we supposed to do? Your father said he would make us sign in. That normally means he’ll threaten us or harm our son. I wanted him to be Lord of Winterfell more than you, but at least he’ll be safe if he’s going to be your father’s heir; Joffrey wouldn’t dare hurt him if your father’s going to be with him all the time training him how to be a Lord.”

“Doesn’t it worry you _how_ he’ll train him? That he’ll be ruthless and callous and a bastard just like him?”

“I would _never_ let our son be like him.” Who was she trying to reassure, herself or Tyrion? “We’ll love him and we’ll keep your father happy so he’ll keep our son safe.”

“And how will we make our father happy? I tried for the first half of my life but in the end I stopped. Enlighten me on how we should do this.”

Hesitantly: “Give him a Western name.”

“Tywin,” Tyrion mock suggested.

She shook her head. “Something that he’d approve of. What are your Uncles called?”

“Kevan, Tygett and Gerion, but he wouldn’t be pleased if we named our son after any of his brothers; my Uncle Gerion was reckless but still my favourite Uncle, but he left behind a bastard.”

“Do you have many cousins?”

“Plenty; my Grandfather had five children, all of them bred many children. I have Lancel and Willem and Martyn and Janei from my Uncle Kevan. Tyrek from my Uncle Tygett, Joy Hill from Uncle Gerion who died – she married into the Frey family like my Aunt Genna, who had Cleos – who has his own children now and proudly named one after my father and another Willem. And there’s Lyonel and Tion and another Walder Frey. Willem and Tion were both killed under your brother’s bannermen.”

“My heart yearns for them,” she answered derisively.

To which Tyrion laughed, then turned solemn. “I know you’d like to name our son Eddard or Robb, but you see-”

“-I know,” Sansa cut him off. She gave her finger for their son to suckle. “But I don’t know as many Western names as you. Give me some.”

Tyrion attempted to trace the line of his Grandfathers and Great-Grandfathers for Sansa to hear. “Tytos, Tybolt, Damon, Tyland, Jason, Loren, Gerold, Tommen, Lancel, Lann. I suggest Tyland.”

She shook her head. “I don’t. I like Gerion; he seemed nice.”

“You like him or you like the name?”

“Both,” Sansa decided. “I like Tytos.”

“I knew a man named Tyran once,” Tyrion explained. “He was a good man: a farmer and whenever I rode past his farm he always used to give me apples. I played with his son Tyran too, when I was a young boy at the docks of Lannisport. What do you think to Tyran?”

“I like it,” she agreed. “Would your father?”

“I’d imagine so,” Tyrion stated.

***

Not short after dawn, Queen Margaery was their second visitor. She came without Joffrey after Sansa and Tyrion had been bathed and dressed by their servants. They were about to break their fast when the Queen bounded in.

“I came as soon as Lord Tywin told me!” Margaery was heavily pregnant, but she still looked beautiful. She was to have her baby in three months and already toys and furniture and clothes had been to the royal couple by the thousands. “Can I see him?”

“He’s sleeping, so try not to wake him,” Tyrion advised. “It is nice that you came to visit.”

“I just had to,” Margaery beamed and crossed the room to the cot. She gasped. “He’s so precious! I won’t hold him so I don’t wake him. Oh Sansa! Our sons will play together in the keep! Isn’t this _fantastic_?” Sansa nodded with a smile, _as long as he doesn’t turn out like Joffrey_. “May I break my fast with you? Only I ache too much to return to my quarters.”

Tyrion rose him his chair. “Take mine, your Grace; I’m going to find my father.”

“Oh he’s breaking his fast with my husband.”

Tyrion left the room, and Margaery took his seat opposite Sansa at the table. “Was it terrible? Does giving birth hurt?”

There was no point in lying to her; Margaery would learn the full extent of her pain in three months. “It’s terrible.”

“It’s worth it though, isn’t it?” Sansa nodded. “Have you got a name for the little Lord?”

“Tyran.”

“What a radiant name. Lord Tyran Lannister of Casterly Rock: Warden of the West.”

 _Bad news travels fast,_ Sansa thought. “It is an honour to bear Lord Tywin an heir. Now I must give Winterfell an heir.”

Margaery cast a glance over her shoulder. “I think it’s rather unfair that Lord Tywin made you give up Winterfell for a short time just so he can have an heir. You’re riding to my brother’s wedding soon, aren’t you?” Margaery was so clever; so quick to change the conversation. “Will you give him my regards?”

“You’re not going?”

“I would be ready to have my baby by then,” Margaery informed. “Willas offered to change the date, but I said that wasn’t fair; he has waited so long to fall in love he shouldn’t delay it another minute. Would you tell him I miss him, and that I love him?”

“Of course, your Grace,” Sansa smiled.

For a few seconds, Sansa thought Margaery was ungrateful. Sansa would cross the Narrow Sea nine months with a baby inside her just to _see_ her brother Robb again. Margaery’s brother was a few weeks ride from the capitol and she wouldn’t even attend his wedding.

“We’ll be sisters, won’t we?”

Sansa looked confused. “How?”

“Well, Jeyne Westerling married your brother, and now she’s going to marry mine. Though that doesn’t make us sisters, does it?”

Sansa laughed. “No.”

***

This was the happiest Tyrion felt in a long time.

He had a son. He had a child. Someone to love him and to respect him. Someone that Tyrion could give all to that his father never gave him. Tyrion would spoil Tyran: give him sweets before dinner, buy him the finest armour when he got older, the most beautiful horse and saddle and equipment. Anything Tyran wanted Tyrion would give to him. He would be a better father to Tyran than Tywin ever was to Tyrion.

Almost skipping with glee, Tyrion crossed the Red Keep to his nephew’s chambers, climbing up the steep staircase and being permitted entry. His father and nephew were breaking their fast like the Queen said.

“Hello Uncle,” the King greeted.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion returned.

“When will I meet my little cousin?” Joffrey demanded.

 _The longer the better_. “You may visit Sansa and our son whenever you wish, your Grace. Your wife Queen Margaery is with her now.”

Joffrey smiled at the mere mention of his wife’s name. “Yes, she’ll give me a son too. Your child will be my son’s companion at court.”

“If you have a son,” Tywin corrected.

Joffrey turned on Tywin, as if Tywin stating the truth was an insult to Joffrey. “It is not doubtable that Margaery will give me a son; she had three older brothers, her father was first born and her mother’s eldest brother was first born. I am the first born, as was my father and his father. She will give me a son; it’s a fact.”

“If you say so, your Grace.”

The King still looked sour, and he lounged back in his chair. “Well it won’t be long now, will it?”

“No, your Grace,” Tywin remarked. He looked at Tyrion who settled himself between the King and his Hand. “Have you decided on a name for your child?”

“Yes,” said Tyrion.

There was a long pause. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“I can do,” Tyrion replied. He took a piece of toast and began to butter it. “We decided on Tyran.”

“ _Tyran_?” Tywin echoed. “Well it could be worse.”

“Yes it could,” Tyrion agreed. “We could have named him Tywin.”


	7. Highgarden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion ride for a wedding, Tyrion discusses Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa meets the Tyrell's and fears for her son's future and Tyrion realises that Sansa never swears.

Sansa had her mare saddled and was dressed in her riding clothes. The stable boy helped her onto her horse and Sansa grasped the reigns between her fingers. It had been so long since she sat on a horse. It had been even longer that she had left King’s Landing, almost two years in fact. Now she was leaving for Lord Willas and Lady Jeyne’s wedding in Highgarden. She had never felt so excited as the prospect before until she was sat on her horse, waiting for her husband to arrive with their son so she could leave.

Tyran was three months old now: a chubby little boy with his father’s family’s green eyes and golden hair. Tyrion and Sansa would alternate which days they would hold Tyran on the rides. After they flipped a gold dragon, it was decided that Tyrion would hold Tyran for his first ride.

It was a beautiful day and Sansa felt hot beneath her riding gown. She wasn’t going to complain, of course; she loved the thrill that riding gave her now: the feeling of escape and adventure. She knew she had little of that in the past two years.

Sansa had not expected a leaving party and received no one but Lady Cersei, who started towards Sansa with three handmaidens in tow.

“Little dove,” Cersei greeted. “Though you are not so little anymore.”

Cersei gracefully hoisted her skirts above her ankles as to avoid soiling them. Sansa towered over Cersei on her mare but she still felt threatened.

“It is good for you to see us off.”

“Where’s your son?” Cersei asked.

“With Tyrion.”

Cersei began to pick at the leather on Sansa’s saddle. “It’s a shame you’ll miss the royal announcement of the birth.”

“If the Gods are good, Margaery and Joffrey will have many children and I will attend all their other celebrations.”

“If the Gods are good,” Cersei reiterated. “Enjoy Highgarden, won’t you? I hope the climate is not too extreme for you."”

“I am sure you will withstand it.”

“Though it’s been a long time since you last felt true cold, isn’t it little dove? Only it’s been... two years since you’ve seen your family – half of whom are dead.”

 _Well done_ , Sansa thought in her mind. How the royal family loved to remind her that they had murdered her family. “Tyrion and Tyran are my family now.”

Cersei gave her a sickening smile. “Of course they are. You may love your son, but you will never love Tyrion.”

Sansa glanced around her. “I love Tyrion,” she began sweetly. “As much as you loved King Robert.”

 Sansa kicked her heels into the side of her mare and trotted over to where she saw her little husband and son riding towards the stables. It was a little insult: a small quick-witted jibe, but it satisfied Sansa greatly.

***

Four hours into the ride South and Tyran began to scream. He was hungry, most likely for Sansa. _Me too little man, me too._ But Sansa was riding ahead, talking to Ellaria Sand while Tyrion stayed behind with Prince Oberyn, who were also visiting Highgarden for the wedding.

“I have seven daughters,” Oberyn informed. “But never a son.”

“You’re missing out,” Tyrion said derisively. “Pod! Fetch me a bottle – where’s Pod?”

Tyrion and Prince Oberyn were the furthest behind: the rest of their party were seen over the horizon. Tyrion refused to ride fast when he had his son in his arms.

“Give your son to me; I always found that Dornish wine sends babies to sleep.”

“You’re giving my son wine? Even I didn’t start drinking that young.”

“You stick your finger in the wine and the baby will suckle. Dornish wine is sweet and he’ll like it. Try it.”

Tyrion did so. He opened his flask of wine that hung from his hip and stuck a podgy finger inside and gave it to his son. He was reluctant to take the finger at first, but snapped down on it. If he had teeth it would have hurt.

“Better.”

They were a host of five hundred: four hundred of whom were Dornishmen, the remainder a mixture of Southern Lords and Ladies who had come to court with Margaery and were invited to the wedding.

“How long does it take to ride to Highgarden?” Tyrion asked his Dornish friend.

“It took four months to ride from Sunspear to King’s Landing, so maybe three to Highgarden.”

“And you stay and go onto Dorne after the wedding?”

“I wish to see my family: I have seven daughters I have not seen in almost a year. My brother Doran is old and sick with gout and my nephew Quentyn recently passed in Meereen.”

“What was he doing at Meereen?” Prince Oberyn was hesitant to reply. “Oberyn...”

“Daenerys Stormborn, is in Meereen.”

“I know. She sacked the city and freed all the slaves. Why did Quentyn go to Meereen? Oberyn...”

Oberyn glanced around. “He wished to marry the Targaryen Princess.”

“To gain Dorne’s support?”

“It was my brother’s idea. He thought that by marrying Quentyn to Daenerys they could avenge Elia’s death and have Daenerys on the throne.”

“And kill me in the process?”

“Hmm... Probably.”

Tyrion scoffed. “And did Daenerys marry your nephew?”

“She turned him down and her dragon covered him in fire.”

Tyrion looked alarmed. “Did she not think he was handsome?”

Oberyn glared at Tyrion. “You Lannister’s: no respect for the murder of Dornish people.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Oberyn kicked his heels into his mare and galloped away from Tyrion.

***

They arrived at Highgarden in three months and were welcomed graciously by the Tyrell family. There was a party waiting for them at the Reach, where five hundred Southern men rode back South with them to Highgarden, one of them being Queen Margaery’s second eldest brother, Garlan Tyrell and his wife, Leonette.

After that, it took only two weeks to arrive at Highgarden where the Tyrell family all stood waiting for them in their keep.

Highgarden was a beautiful white stone castle. It was bigger than Winterfell but smaller than the Red Keep at King’s Landing. It was more beautiful than King’s Landing too.

Olenna Tyrell stood at the beginning of the ensemble and embraced Sansa when she dismounted her mare.

“It is so lovely to see you in the South, my dear, and so lovely to see you out of those loose rags.”

Highgarden was far hotter than King’s Landing, and Margaery had given Sansa a few of her gowns to make the stay more enjoyable as well as have her made some as a gift for her fifteenth name day.

“Thank you for having us in your home, Lady Olenna,” Sansa smiled.

“Yes, yes,” Olenna merely dismissed her. She linked her arm through Sansa’s and led her through the family. “This is my son Mace, though you know him already, which is quite unfortunate. And his wife, Alerie. And this is my eldest daughter, Mina and her husband Paxter and their children Horas, Hobber and dear Desmera.” Horas and Hobber both kissed Sansa’s hand. “And this is my youngest daughter Janna, though you know her, but you haven’t met her husband Jon-”

“-I’ve met Lady Sansa,” Jon kissed her hand. “How are you, my Lady?”

“Very well Ser Jon.”

“And of course you know Garlan; you danced with him at your wedding! And Leonette taught you to play the harp and this...” Olenna took her to the final two. “Is my Grandson Willas and his soon-to-be wife, Jeyne.”

Sansa was to marry Willas a long time ago. And he smiled at her, hugged her and kissed her on both cheek. He was quite handsome despite the injury, Sansa thought, but his beauty had been exaggerated to her and was not as handsome as his younger brother Loras.

Sansa had not been looking forward to meeting Jeyne. Surely the prospect of meeting her brother’s wife should have thrilled her, but Sansa was filled with resentment. _It is her fault Robb was killed_. But Sansa hugged her same, and Jeyne held Sansa at arm’s length afterwards.

“It is an honour to finally meet you at last, Lady Sansa. Robb... He missed you terribly... And your mother even more so.”

Tears welled up in Jeyne’s eyes and Sansa bit her lip. The girl did show grief for her late husband’s death, but there was something about marrying so soon that made Sansa question the love she had for her brother.

“It is nice to meet you too, Jeyne.”

Willas put an arm around his betrothed. “She gets very upset when Robb is mentioned, my Lady; the news of his death came as a great shock to her. I only hope to mend her broken heart.”

He sounded so poetic he sounded false. Sansa then turned to Olenna. “Lady Olenna, has there been any news on Margaery?”

The old lady smiled sweetly and fingered a strand of Sansa’s dark auburn hair. “She bore the King a healthy child,” she said, “a girl, though.”

A pang of anxiety flooded Sansa and she felt herself fearing for the Queen as she had done when Margaery first confided in Sansa that she was with child. She only hoped Joffrey took the news well and understood that there was still time to bear a son.

“What did she name it?” Sansa asked.

“Alyse,” Willas told. “A beautiful baby girl with blonde curls and her mother’s large brown eyes. You will see her when you return to King’s Landing after my wedding.”

Sansa was dreading the return and would happily stay at Highgarden for the rest of her life. Tyran had spent four months out of his short seven month life travelling, how Sansa would long for him to spend the remainder of his days safe at Highgarden.

***

Sansa and Tyrion and Tyran were given chambers in the keep at Highgarden. The room they were given in the South was bigger than the one in the Red Keep: the bed was comfier and the view they had overlooking the golden roses was phenomenal. Tyrion wished he never had to leave.

As they unpacked, Tyran crawled across the room.

“Mama!” He cried, holding up one of his mother’s brooches. Sometimes, if Tyran strung the right words together, he would say ‘mama.’ More often than not, he did. “Mama!”

“Drop it, Tyran,” Sansa instructed. Tyran did as commanded. “Good boy.”

Tyrion ran to his son who laughed when he saw his short father coming towards him. With a swift movement, Tyrion reached down, grabbed his son and flung him in the air, his wife laughed, folding her clothes up as she did so.

“Soon you’ll be bigger than me Tyran, when what will we do? Hey? What will we do when you get bigger than me? What will we do?”

He started to tickle Tyran, who screamed in delight. “Be careful!” Sansa warned. “I just fed him!”

Tyrion swung him around once more and deposited him into his crib. “If I know my father as well as I believe I do,” Tyrion began. “He’ll attempt to arrange a marriage between Princess Alyse and our Tyran.”

“I won’t let him,” Sansa said.

“It’s not a case of letting him. It’s my father. He’ll do what he wants as he always does and he’s a cunt.”

She cringed at the word and Tyrion attempted to recollect to a time when Sansa had ever cursed. He tried to remember when they had shared a bed, if Sansa had cursed at climax, but she had not. In labour, she cursed the Gods but she didn’t use any vulgar words.

“Have you ever cursed before, Sansa?”

“No,” she replied.

“Why?”

“It’s not very Ladylike to curse,” she elaborated.

Tyrion chuckled. “My sister was the Queen and she cursed as much as her husband the King. You must have cursed.”

“Mother and father hated it,” she said, “when father heard Jon curse he made him clean out the stables.” Tyrion could imagine Eddard Stark doing that. “I never did it. It’s not useful. Mother said that people who cursed were ignorant, but I heard mother and father both curse on occasion.”

Tyrion glanced at his son’s crib. Tyran was already sleeping, then he turned back to his young wife. “So you’ve gone five-and-ten years without cursing?”

“I’m not fifteen yet, but I am in one week.”

“Have you ever gotten drunk?” She shook her head. “Did you ever kiss anyone before me – now you surely must have done that?”

“I did,” she said, “Joffrey.”

 _Tyrion always knew how to ruin a light hearted mood._ “Tyran’s asleep,” he noted.

Nodding: “Yes.”

“We really ought to... Try and...”

“Have a baby?” It was Tyrion’s turn to cringe. “We really ought to,” Sansa agreed. She didn’t seem reluctant at the prospect either, which was strange for Tyrion to see. “I love Tyran and I love raising him, but how I would love to raise another child, to have another son and for him to be the Lord of Winterfell like your father promised. Or even have a daughter. I’d like to have a daughter.”

“Well as I said, Tyran’s asleep.”

“We can’t... Not with Tyran in the room!”

“Why not? We did it with Tyran _inside_ you!”

Sansa chuckled and she threw some silk at Tyrion. “You need to learn to mind your tongue, my Lord.”

“Then you must teach me, my Lady.”

That night, with Tyrion atop her, Sansa cursed.


	8. The Feeling of Contrition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa talks to Jeyne and dances at a wedding. A betrothal is made as is someone else.

On the morning of the wedding, Tyrion and Sansa stayed in bed longer and thus they missed the breakfast. Sansa had already present Lady Jeyne with her wedding gift on their first day at Highgarden: Shae. Jeyne was of course thrilled and embraced Sansa. They walked together in the garden after that well into the night and when Sansa returned to Tyrion, her eyes were red and swollen.

“She loved my brother,” she sobbed. “And he died because he loved her. It was _horrible_!”

Sansa was very content to see Lady Jeyne happily wed Willas. She watched as her father led her towards her betrothed in the sept where he draped her in a Tyrell gown of gold roses and kissed her in front of everybody to see.

The party was fantastic: hundreds of plates of foods filled the tables they had set outside with the only light coming from the flaming torches and the setting sun. Sansa and Tyrion were given priority seating with Jeyne’s family, and Sansa danced with Jeyne’s father Gawen, who discussed the treachery Robb faced and Jeyne’s younger brother Rollam, too.

“The Frey’s killed my brother too,” said the eleven-year-old boy, “he tried to free your brother’s wolf and they shot him. I liked your brother; he gave me his cherry pie once when I dropped mine on the floor.”

Sansa smiled sweetly at the little boy. “I’m very sorry to hear about your brother. I am sure Ser Raynald is with my brother now in one of the Seven Heavens very proud of you.”

“Thank you Sansa,” smiled Rollam. “I like Willas too, but I liked Robb very much more.”

“I’m sure you did.”

The song stopped and Sansa planted a kiss on Rollam’s cheek and returned to her husband’s side. He smiled at her.

“I think young Ser Seashell is smitten.”

“Don’t call him that,” Sansa scolded. “Rollam was talking to me about his brother Raynald. He died with Robb.”

“What a cheery conversation to have at a wedding. Would you like to discuss with me how the first thing I did in this world was kill my mother?”

She gave him an appalling look. “You have a disgusting sense of humour, Lannister.”

Tyrion’s eyes flickered. “I know. Now go and play. Enjoy this wedding.”

“I will enjoy it more if you dance with me.”

She held out her hand, sincerely wanting him to dance with her. A year ago, she had not spoken to Tyrion let alone consider the prospect of dance with him. Today, however, she would not take no for an answer and almost had to drag her little husband to dance with her. He placed a hand on her hip and took his hand.

***

Sansa had prolonged discussing her feelings about Robb to Jeyne in great detail, but she was returning to King’s Landing in a fortnight and would probably never see Jeyne again and she was the only surviving person left who knew Robb as well as she did.

“I told you about how we met,” Jeyne began. It was two days after Jeyne’s wedding to Willas and the two girls walked through the musky evening in the garden. “He invaded my home and got shot by arrows and I nursed him back to health. He was kind and courteous and loving: everything that a King should be. There’s not a day that doesn’t go by that I don’t miss him.”

Sansa knew the feeling. “Did Robb ever mention me?”

“All the time. He was so eager to have you back home and safe. Your mother wanted to trade Jaime Lannister for you and your sister the instant he was captured, but Robb... Sansa what you have to understand was that Robb was certain that he would win this war. He didn’t want to trade you for the Kingslayer so soon. But he always tried to get you back and your mother did, too. They loved you so much.”

“I just miss him. I miss them all: father, mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya and Jon.”

“Robb missed all of you too.”

Jeyne stood opposite Sansa and squeezed her hands. “I’m so glad to have met you; it’s really helped me to talk about Robb. I hope it’s helped you too.”

“It has. Thank you, Jeyne.”

Jeyne kissed Sansa on her cheek. “You’ve been a true friend to me. You’re like a sister. Willas said he would have raised the South against Robb Stark if he was given the chance; he thought it was terrible the way King Joffrey took your father’s head. He really didn’t want Margaery to marry a boy like that. Do you have to go back to King’s Landing? Can you stay at Highgarden? You’re more than welcome.”

“I’d love to. Nothing would please me more but I’m not allowed. Lord Tywin would send his men down to Highgarden to retrieve us and punish us when we returned... Though I shouldn’t say that.”

“I confide in you as you confide in me. Nothing you tell me will escape my lips, I promise you that.” Sansa believed her. “I would do anything to avenge my husband and brother’s deaths at the Twins. How about you and me raise Willas’ army and go and bring back Lord Frey’s head? I’d let you keep it.”

Sansa laughed. “Then we’ll go to Winterfell and take Roose Bolton’s.”

“I’d like that. Our brothers were too innocents who didn’t deserve to be betrayed like they did. I can’t help but take the blame and feel guilty. If I hadn’t seduced Robb-”

“Don’t say that; he fell in love with you. It wasn’t your fault.”

Jeyne looked at Sansa concerned. “I don’t love Willas. I only married him because mother forced me. I like him; it’s a good match, but when I look at him and he crawls on top of me I think he’s Robb and I cry when I remember Robb’s dead. Am I a horrible person?”

“You’re completely the opposite of a horrible person, Jeyne, and neither is Willas. Willas is kind and gentle and understands that you suffered a great loss when Robb died. He can’t expect you to be over his death now that you’ve said your vows. You might grow to love your new husband. I’ve grown to accept mine.”

“Do you love Lord Tyrion?”

Sansa was unsure. She hated him when she first married him: she hated his family and what they did to hers. But since conceiving Tyran, Sansa felt more confident in herself. She felt protected with the Lannister’s as her family more than she did when she was a Stark. She was no longer shy and she spoke truthfully to her husband. She went to him with her whims and her woes and her desires, no matter how futile they were, and Tyrion was accepting of her and would do the same. They found comfort in each other, something Sansa never thought she would find in her little husband.

“No,” Sansa admitted. “I’m not sure I ever truly will.”

The girl’s walked in silence for a little while, and then Jeyne turned to Sansa. They were stood underneath the shade of an apple tree and the weather turned cool. “I’d like for us to be family, Sansa. If Willas and I have a daughter soon, perhaps – perhaps we could join our houses?” It was a better offer than Joffrey’s offspring married to her Tyran. “Though if Tyran’s anything like his Uncle then I won’t be definite.”

“I’d like that very much,” smiled Sansa. “When your daughter is older, bring her to King’s Landing so our children can meet. If Tyran and your daughter like each other then I would be more than happy to accept her into the family.”

Jeyne smiled sweetly. “You truly are worth everything that Robb set out for in this war.”

“And you truly are a girl to break an oath for, Jeyne.”

***

Tyrion enjoyed his stay at Highgarden as much as his wife did. He drank with Ser Willas and Ser Garlan, and Jeyne’s father while the ladies of Highgarden were left to their own devices. Jeyne and Sansa would often roam the gardens of Highgarden: a luxury Sansa did not have at King’s Landing. Everyone there was a spy and she could not speak to anyone in confidence apart from her husband. At Highgarden she had Jeyne whom she would spend lengthy hours talking about Robb to. It was good for her to talk it out with someone who knew him as well as she did, and he saw the change in Sansa when they began their ride to King’s Landing.

“Jeyne offered to marry Tyran to her daughter,” Sansa informed once they set out on the road. “I accepted if our children like each other.”

“It’s an excuse to make to Joffrey now, and the girl will be a Tyrell so father wouldn’t complain. You enjoyed Highgarden, didn’t you Sansa?”

“More than I expected.”

Sansa held eight month old Tyran in her arms. He was sat on her lap, bouncing along with the pace of the horse. Their son would be eleven months by the time they returned to King’s Landing and Joffrey and Margaery’s daughter Princess Alyse would already be seven months. It had been seven months of escape from the mad King Joffrey which had made the journey so enjoyable for Sansa and her husband.

“I’ll miss the South,” Sansa said longingly.

“One day, I’ll take you to Casterly Rock. It’s just as beautiful as Highgarden but much more splendid. Would you like to see it?”

“It will be Tyran’s home one day. Of course I would.”

***

Tyrion wondered if he should mention Shae.

Early that morning, Tyrion had woken early to say farewell to Shae. She was staying at Highgarden to be a handmaiden to Lady Jeyne. In all truth, Tyrion didn’t want Shae to leave him, but he knew it was much better than to have her at King’s Landing with them where she would be murdered if his father found out about them and a distraction to his marriage.

“You handled it very graciously,” Tyrion said quietly. “About Shae.”

Sansa stiffened. “She is safer at Highgarden.”

“I never – _we never_ – not while you and I were married.”

“She said so.”

“And do you believe us?”

Honestly: “I didn’t at the beginning; I saw the way you looked at each other. You really loved her. Don’t deny it to spare my feelings. I know true love when I see it.”

“I wasn’t going to deny it; you’re too clever for that.”

***

Throughout her life at King’s Landing, everyone had always underestimated Sansa’s youth. They always called her dumb and never thought she was clever enough to play the game. In fact, Sansa played the game by her own rules with courtesy and grace as her armour and her kindness as her sword. She didn’t need to kill people to rise above them all; she had not been raised like that.

Neither would Tyran, she decided.

And neither would her new child.

Sansa had not bled for two months. Her breasts had swollen and her back ached and she showed other similar symptoms from when she had been carrying Tyran. Only this time, she was excited at the prospect of having a child with Tyrion, and so was he when she told him the news.


	9. Dilapidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion return to King's Landing and learn of Joffrey's neglect towards his daughter.

For the final three weeks of the journey back North, it had almost rained nonstop. Sansa wouldn’t have minded if she had not been with child, and they had to stop at Bitterbridge with the Caswell’s to have a litter made for Sansa to travel in because Tyrion would not have her exposed to the rain and have her vulnerable to a miscarriage.

So the trip North was delayed – not that they minded at all; the Caswell’s were gracious hosts to the family and only asked that Sansa and Tyrion would consider one of their daughters for betrothal to Tyran. The girls already of age, however, and Tyrion paid them more interested than Tyran.

Sansa was four moons with her second child when they arrived at King’s Landing. Nobody was present to greet them and it was not surprising; the day they arrived it was the worst rain the travelling party had seen and lightning filled the skies and thunder deafened them.

Running through the rain with Tyran on his back, Tyrion was relieved when he finally reached the Red Keep, something that he thought he would not ever say. Sansa was too; the rain and bad weather had tired her and made her uncomfortable throughout the trip. She could not wait for a hot bath and a comfy bed and roof that did not blow in the wind or drip water on her in the night.

Sansa and Tyrion and Tyran, Prince Oberyn and Ellaria Sand were drenched with rain, panting and covered in mud when they were welcomed back to the castle by King Joffrey, Queen Margaery and Lord Tywin.

“Did you bring the bad weather with you?” Margaery beamed when she saw them. She rushed to Sansa, embracing her tightly; oblivious to the state she was in. Sansa was pleased to see her friend safe and in one piece. “Wasn’t Highgarden lovely?”

“Better than lovely,” Sansa said.

“Willas said Jeyne cried when you left. She’s having a baby, did you know?”

Sansa was relieved for she had been greatly considering the betrothal of their families. “I am very pleased to hear that.”

“But so are you, that’s more exciting.”

***

Margaery led Sansa away by the arm and Prince Oberyn and Ellaria left too.  Tyrion turned to his father.

“Can this child inherit Winterfell, or are you planning on making him heir to the Eyrie or Highgarden or fucking Dorne?”

Tywin looked impatient, and then looked at Tyran who stood short against his father at eleven months old, clinging onto his leg, barely able to stand as it was. “You’ve grown.”

“Thank you I had barely noticed,” Tyrion replied.

Joffrey laughed. “Oh Uncle, how we missed your quick wits: court has been boring without them.”

“Not that boring now that you have a daughter.”

“Margaery will give me a son soon.”

“I never said that.”

“Well she will. Soon I’ll put a Prince inside her.”

“And what a joyous day that will be.”

_It is like I haven’t been away. My intolerable nephew is as ignorant to the world as ever and my father just stands back and lets shit happen without interfering just as a good Lord should. Soon, he will attempt to brainwash my son and when that day comes, I am ready to counter everything you teach him._

“Where is the little Princess?” Tyrion asked Joffrey.

“Playing somewhere. With mother I imagine.”

Tyrion always knew where Tyran was. Tyrion never imagined Joffrey to be very close with any children Margaery might bear him, but Tyrion could imagine Joffrey not once holding Princess Alyse and making Margaery do all the work on her.

“I want to arrange a meeting with the two of you immediately,” his father interrupted. “In the small council room if you’d wish. _Now_.”

The three men began the walk to the small council room. Clearly, nobody cared what state Tyrion was in: whether or not he was covered in mud and soaking wet or if he was dressed in fine garments, nobody paid any interest.

They crossed the corridor and after a short while, they were met by a Septa carrying a small child in her arms. This was Princess Alyse: a small child with bouncing blonde ringlets and big brown eyes, reaching out for her father who regarded her as much as a small town peasant.

“Papa! Papa!”

“Yes, yes,” Joffrey patted his daughter on the head. “Father’s busy.”

But Princess Alyse was reluctant. “PAPA! PAPA!”

Joffrey snatched his daughter out of the Septa’s arms for seconds before he pushed her back at her. “There you go. Father’s busy. Go and play with your dolls.”

 _This is borderline ridiculous_ , Tyrion thought, and his father clearly thought the same thing. Tyrion was certain that even when Tyrion was a baby in public Tywin didn’t treat him like that. Princess Alyse began to cry but Joffrey ordered her to be taken away from him. It was heartbreaking to see.

“Don’t be deceived by her looks, Uncle,” Joffrey informed. “She’s a wicked little creature. She brought my Queen great pain when she came into this world and brought great disappointment upon the realm. When she’s in a strop she throws her toys at people – she _bruised_ me with one of her wooden dolls the other week. Margaery is oblivious to it: her daughter is a monster.”

_The child is undoubtedly yours then._

***

Margaery sat in with Sansa when she changed out of her soiled gowns into a warm one that had been heated by the fire upon her return. Once Sansa’s new handmaiden had left, Margaery began to speak to Sansa in confidence.

“Joffrey resents Alyse,” she confessed. “He never held her when she was a baby, not once – actually yes he did. She was screaming in court one day and Joffrey had her escorted from the Throne Room where he held her in his arms and shook her, screaming at her. It was horrible. And he calls her a wicked little creature to everyone. She just wants Joff’s attention, that’s all.” Sansa stroked Margaery’s arm. “It’s terrible for me to say, but it almost makes me not want to give him a son. It’s like he doesn’t deserve it.”

“He hasn’t ever hit you though, has he?”

Margaery shook her head. “He wouldn’t dare. But when Alyse gets older and if Joffrey ever raises a hand to her then he won’t have a hand to hit her with.”

Margaery was a strong young woman, had managed to manipulate Joffrey and tame him, but all her hard work seemed to be unravelling.

***

Sansa had returned to King’s Landing and within a couple of days the rain had ceased. It was dry enough to venture outside, but the grass was muddy and the air was humid and clammy. Sansa stayed within the castle walls with Tyran, playing with him in their chambers, stretched out on the bed.

She taught him who her family was from his early life so that he would never forget. Lord Tywin would teach him that all the good things Sansa had told him were wrong. Their knowledge would cancel each other out, but Sansa was determined that her son would not turn out like Tywin. Or her second child for that matter.

Lord Tywin visited Sansa’s chambers every night to visit his Grandson. A majority of the time, Tyran was asleep when his Grandfather paid his visit, and the Warden of the West would tower over Tyran, studying him as if to make certain that he was not a dwarf.

One night in particular, Tywin raised Tyran out of his crib. Tyran had past his first name day to which Tywin presented him with a golden lion brooch that had once been him, given to him by his father. He had not given it to Jaime or Tyrion.

“He is strong.”

Tywin never spoke to Sansa when he visited his Grandson. Sansa had been sewing by the fireplace and jolted when the Lord of Lannister addressed her.

Surprised: “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Does the King ever visit Tyran?”

“Once when he was born and a few weeks after, my Lord. His grace hasn’t returned since we arrived at King’s Landing, though I imagine it is because he is occupied with his own daughter.”

Tywin scoffed. “He pays no regard to his daughter. Queen Margaery says he never even holds her.”

As if that idea shocked him, Sansa was certain Tywin never held one of his children when they were infants; in Sansa’s opinion, he would have just left it to the Wet Nurse.

“You never let anyone else feed this boy, do you?”

“I feel it better if I do, my Lord.”

“A wise decision.”

Tyran snuggled into Tywin’s eyes but woke up. Sansa returned to her needlework, pulling black thread onto a red cloth. She hoped to sew the Stark wolf head onto Lannister colours, and sew that against a Lannister lion onto Stark colours like a quilt for Tyran to sleep against at night.

“Grandpa!”

Tywin had turned around to where Sansa was sat by the fireplace, and when she looked up, Sansa saw her father-in-law do something that she had never recollected him do before in his entire life.

He smiled.

***

When Tyrion returned to her chambers it was long after Lord Tywin had left them. Tyrion always wished to for he and Sansa to be absent when Tywin visited his Grandson, but Sansa was always reluctant to leave Tyran alone with him, frightened that the old Lion would abduct him in the night. Tyrion was always afraid to leave Sansa alone with anyone in King’s Landing, but he had to reside himself to the fact that Sansa was in the least amount of danger from his father... But his mind kept crawling back to how he thought Tysha had been safe from his father in the city of Lannisport and how wrong he had been.

“My father doesn’t smile,” Tyrion remarked when Sansa told him.

“He smiled at Tyran.”

“You must have been mistaken.”

Persistently, she shook her head. “No, he smiled at him. He turned around with Tyran in his arms when Tyran said ‘Grandpa’ and smiled down at him. I swear to the Old Gods and the New that he _smiled_!”

Rolling his eyes: “We ought to throw a celebration.”

“It means he _likes_ Tyran. He’ll keep him safe.”

“Of course he’ll keep him safe, Sansa; he named him heir to Casterly Rock.”

“Not safe from enemies. Safe from Joffrey.”

***

Tyrion bowed his head. Joffrey was the least of Sansa’s problems.

A letter received from Mace Tyrell informed the small council that there was a young boy in the Stormlands claiming to be Aegon Targaryen: the son of Prince Rhaegar and Grandson to King Aerys. It was impossible to determine if it was him or not, despite possessing the infamous Targaryen silver hair.

Then there was his aunt Daenerys who had sacked Astapor, Yunkaii and Meereen, freeing all the slaves and had plans to march west on Westeros once her army had increased. And she had three dragons and a vengeance to kill.

But Tyrion didn’t want to burden Sansa with this. He simply kissed her head and wished her sweet dreams, for he knew that he would never have any.


	10. Robert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion makes a threat and an agreement with his father while Joffrey gets angry at his wife.

Joffrey held a little boy in his arms: a little beauty with dark red hair and brown eyes. It wasn’t his son. It was Tyrion’s and Sansa’s born two moons earlier than expected. He was tiny and fragile, so delicate that Sansa feared if she held him he might break in her arms. The King, however, cared as much for his cousin as he did for anyone.

“He’s a weak little thing.”

Joffrey got to hold their new son before even Tyrion could. Sansa had fallen in the Red Keep and Joffrey had heard her screaming. He thought, that by right, that he was the one with Sansa in her early minutes of labour that he should be allowed to hold the child before Tyrion. Tyrion called that bullshit, but who was he to tell the King he couldn’t?

“It will probably die overnight.”

“The midwives say our son is strong and he will live. Hand him back to Sansa, please.”

Joffrey handled him like a toy he disliked. Margaery watched on, cautious, and she took Joffrey’s arm. “Joff, my darling. The child is hungry. Give him back to Sansa so she can feed him.”

Joffrey turned on his wife. “Don’t give _me_ orders,” then he gave her a disdainful look.  “You ought to ask Sansa how she has two sons and you’ve given me none.” Margaery had a child inside her, though it was only two moons developed. “What if I dropped this child? What would you do, Sansa?”

Sansa was weak and barely conscious. Like before, Maester Qyburn had given her milk of the poppy to numb the pain, but she had demanded more than last time and struggled to stay awake. She only did in hope she might need to defend her son against Joffrey. But it was Tyrion who did.

“If you drop my son, I will stick a knife in your Queen’s belly and cut yours out in front of your eyes and see what it’s like.”

Margaery cringed, placing a hand on her stomach. Joffrey considered his uncle’s threat. “You watch your tongue you sick little monster. I would have your head on a spike if I didn’t think you spoke idly. Here, have your spawn back.”

He thrust the babe in Tyrion’s arms. Tyrion thought that he would be surged with overwhelming love for this new child as he had for Tyran, but he only felt anger to Joffrey.

“Come, Margaery.”

Joffrey swept the room, not waiting for his wife. Margaery stayed back and smiled at the both.

“Please... Just ignore him...” Even now she was still trying to defend him. “I’m sorry.”

She left swiftly after her husband, and Tyrion turned to his wife. “That’s a happy marriage, isn’t it?”

But Sansa had fallen asleep.

***

Tyrion stayed awake that night, terrified if what Joffrey said would come true: that their son would die in the night. The dwarf thought that if he clung onto him for dear life he would stay alive, and he did. He spent the whole night with his son in his arms, sitting by the fire to warm him, gazing upon his face and into his bright blue eyes when they flickered open. Sansa slept throughout the night and into the morning, too.

Margaery returned before noon to see their son again.

“Be careful,” Tyrion warned.

Margaery took him in her arms. _She was made to be a mother to a son._ “He’s very tiny, but very handsome.” Delicately, she kissed his nose. “Don’t you miss them when they’re this small?”

Tyrion preferred Tyran as he was now, at fifteen months old: walking small paces and saying short words, registering his existence and able to tell right from wrong. This baby was innocent and mindless and Tyrion envied him.

“Have you got a name for him?”

“Sansa wants to name him Eddard.”

Sympathetically: “Poor girl.”

“But I spoke to my father about this. He objectified to Eddard, but he didn’t say anything about Brandon. There were a lot of Brandon’s at Winterfell.”

“There are other nice Northern names,” Margaery began. “There was... They’re all quite plain, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Tyrion agreed. “Though if we didn’t officially name our son Eddard and we gave him a variation like Edmund or Edward.”

That prompted an idea in Tyrion's mind, and the Queen had thought the same and grinned widely. 

***

He left his son with Sansa and Margaery once Sansa began to awaken and Tyrion headed for his father’s solar. Like always, Lord Tywin was hard at work, but Tyrion was admitted entrance never the less. Lord Tywin glanced up from his papers when his little son walked in.

“Where’s Tyran? I thought he was with you?”

“He’s at court with King Joffrey.”

Tyran had attended court a few times with Joffrey. Joffrey paid more attention to Tyran than he ever did with Alyse. Once, he had left Tyran sit on the Throne.

“So Sansa gave you another son? Your heir to Winterfell at last.”

“Seemingly so.”

“I will visit him tonight.” _I’m certain you will to make sure he is not a monster like me._ “Have you decided on a name for him yet? It will have to be documented as soon as possible.”

“This is why I came to speak to you. We want to gain support from the Eyrie, which Littlefinger is attempting to do by marrying Lady Lysa Arryn, but nothing has been done about the little boy Robert, which is where my proposal comes in.”

Tywin studied him. “Continue.”

“What if we honour the little Lord Robert Arryn by naming mine and Sansa’s son after him? Sansa is his cousin, after all, and Lady Lysa’s niece. It would not seem unordinary. It would not seem desperate. As they will both be Wardens when they come of age, it would be useful if the East was a loyal ally to the North, which we could secure by honouring Lord Robert with making him our sons namesake... What do you think.”

“What I think is, your wife wants to name your son Robb, which you both know I will not allow so you have concocted the idea that I will allow you to name him Robert if you lie and say you are honouring the House of Arryn.”

Tyrion smiled sheepishly. “And to piss off my sister.”

“It is an honourable gesture to the East,” Tywin agreed. “And I suppose your wife has done her duty by the realm by birthing you two suitable heirs, one for Casterly Rock and the other for Winterfell. You can tell your young wife she can name her son for her dead brother – yes, you must still keep the name Robert to keep the East sweet – so long as he stays in the capitol until he comes of age as Tyran will do.”

This has gone better than Tyrion expected. “Of course.”

“Mhm... Now leave me and if you see your son, return him to my chambers. I have not finished his lessons.”

“What are you teaching him today?” Tyrion got off the chair.

“The Houses and it’s families of the Westerlands.”

“Father, he’s scarcely one.”

“It is better for him to learn young. Now leave before I change my mind.”

Tyrion nodded. “Thank you father.”

***

There was a compromise to be made, but Sansa was thrilled that she could call her son Robb. Legally, he would be Robert: he would be Lord Robert of Winterfell, but to her and everyone else, they would call him Robb.

When Sansa and Tyrion signed the legal documents, confirming their son’s name, she half expected Lord Tywin to barge through the door and mock her for thinking she could have her son named for her dead brother. It was the kindest thing a Lannister had done for her (except Tyrion) since she arrived at King’s Landing, and she thanked Tywin for it when he came to visit her children.

“You did your duty and bore my son two heirs. Although Robb Stark was a traitor to the Realm, he was also your brother and your son’s uncle.”

“When can we go to Winterfell?”

Tywin hesitated. “Soon.”

***

He sat atop the Iron Throne, towering over all of them. His Grandfather sat to his right making all the decisions while Joffrey merely confirmed them. He knew better than to disagree with his Grandfather; his decisions were always right and benefited the Realm.

Though court could be boring, it was better than suffering supper with his wife and daughter. If Alyse had been born a boy like Joffrey desired, supper would be more tolerable, and Margaery hated the way he was around Alyse. The way Joffrey considered it was that his own father had been disappointed in him, so why should he treat his own children any better?

Margaery received a letter at supper and she gasped with delight. “My brother Willas writes that Jeyne just bore him twins! A boy and a girl: Helena and Haelan, both healthy, as is Lady Jeyne.”

Joffrey was unsatisfied. “At least Tyrell’s aren’t incapable of having sons.”

Joffrey knew that Margaery longed for a son as much as he did. They prayed at the sept everyday that the Gods would grant them a son, and Margaery reached over the table and took his hand.

“There is still time yet, my love. The Gods may grant us another girl, and if that is so, then we will try and try again until we are blessed with a son.”

The King threw her hand away. “I don’t want her dining with us any longer.”

Margaery was holding Alyse on her lap. “My love, she is your daughter. Your Princess.”

“She is not my _Prince_. When you give me a son our daughter will be honoured at our table. In the meantime, give her to her Wet Nurse to feed. She is more suited there.”

His Queen looked as if she was going to protest, but she merely rose from her seat. “Yes, my King.”

“Where are you going? I didn’t give you permission to leave my table.”

“With your leave, your Grace, I will put Alyse to bed.”

“Hmm, go. And pay a visit to my intolerable uncle. How dare he curse my father’s name by giving it to his son. It’s a scandal.”

“Yes my love,” Margaery agreed.

***

Margaery told Sansa that Jeyne had given birth to a son and a daughter, she was thrilled. Since Highgarden, Sansa had accepted Jeyne’s proposal to marry her daughter Helena to either Tyran or Robb. There was talk amongst court, however, that Princess Alyse would be betrothed to Tyran soon: which Sansa had dreaded.

She asked Margaery about it. “Joffrey says Alyse will marry one of the Prince’s of Pentos when she gets older, or a Sealord from Braavos. He just wants to send her away.”

Sending her away would be safer, but would also be harder for Margaery to bear. Then there was talk that Dorne were fading away from the support of King Joffrey and were slowly gaining the favour of the acclaimed Prince Aegon who had taken Storm’s End to wait for his Aunt Daenerys and her three dragons to take the city for them. Perhaps Alyse would be sent to Dorne as Myrcella had, to secure their alliance, or to strengthen it.

Either way, the people of King’s Landing’s days were numbered.


	11. Heartbreaking Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery gives Joffrey twins but disaster strikes at their presentation.

Margaery had given Joffrey children: twins like her brother Willas. A beautiful Prince and Princess were born on the hottest day since winter had been announced, both with bouncing golden locks of hair and big green eyes.

The Kingdoms were in rejoice. Lords and Ladies rode from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms to meet the future King of Westeros. Joffrey had been thrilled when Margaery presented him with a son: a chubby little boy then named Tomas and a bouncing baby girl named Alysanne.

Joffrey was fond of his new son. On the second day he was born he attended court with his father, sat on the King’s lap on the Iron Throne, his mother and grandmother watching on fondly. His parents would present Prince Tomas to the Lords and Ladies of Westeros within the month, but Joffrey didn’t wait that long and showed his son off to the members of court.

***

It was a relief that Joffrey had the heir he had loathed Margaery for not giving him already. Now he could not lose his patience or anger with Margaery and Alyse and might begin to love and be kind to his daughter now that he had a son. But even a fortnight after Joff had been given a son, he had not touched Alyse, or his new daughter Alysanne. He was focused intently on Tomas.

“Give it time,” Tyrion suggested when Margaery and the royal Princesses broke their fast with them on the morning that Prince Tomas and Princess Alysanne would be formally presented to Westeros. “Just enjoy today and try not to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Margaery disagreed. “And Joff will be happier now he has an heir. I know everything will be fine.”

***

Sansa was with Margaery when it happened.

In her arms, she held Robb and Tyran sat at her feet playing. The ladies were in Margaery’s room, preparing her for court. She prevented placing Tomas; she loved holding her son. The feel of him against her skin, his thin wisps of blonde hair and his big brown eyes gazing up at her.

“He has a cough,” Margaery told Sansa. “Grand Maester Pycelle is getting him some medicine.”

Margaery planted a kiss on Tomas’ head and placed him in his crib. She walked to the step and her ladies stripped her of her morning gown and placed her in her skirts she would wear to present her son: a gown of green with golden Baratheon stags on the corset. Then they did her hair and decorated her with necklaces.

This all took no more than half an hour, but it was too late.

Margaery returned to her son’s crib and let out a horrific scream.

“SOMEONE HELP HIM!”

Sansa and a few others rushed to Prince Tomas’ crib, but Margaery held her son in her arms. Sansa could see the little Prince choking, blood pouring out of his mouth and shaking and coughing violently. Margaery kissed his head, stroking her back and thumped it to help him. She refused anyone else to touch her son as she sobbed on the cold stone floor.

When Tomas let out a scream that mirrored his mother’s, it broke Sansa’s heart.

Prince Tomas was dead.

***

“GET OUT! GET OUT ALL OF YOU! LEAVE ME! LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Margaery sobbed, clutching her dead son’s body. Tears poured out of her eyes, rolling down her cheek. Her dress was stained with the blood that had burst from Tomas’ mouth and nose. His eyes had rolled up into his head and the little Prince was purple. He was a hideous sight to bestow but Margaery wouldn’t let go of him.

Sansa stayed behind. She had told one of Margaery’s cousins to take Robb and Tyran and return them to Tyrion and to alert the King on what had happened. Many of the lady’s had been crying but none of them matched Margaery’s grief.

Sansa fell to her knees beside her friend who was doubled over Tomas, shielding him. “They won’t take him. I won’t let them.”

The red head put a hand on Margaery’s back. “Margaery... There’s nothing that can be done.”

“This is my fault! Lord Tywin he – he said I should – he said we shouldn’t do this today! We should wait until Tomas was better... Give him to a Nurse... But Joff and I were so proud... We were going to do it tomorrow... Sansa, I didn’t know! How could I have known?”

“You couldn’t,” Sansa consoled. “Of course you couldn’t. This isn’t your fault. It’s the fever.”

“Why him? Why _Tomas_?”

Why not Alyse or Alysanne, Sansa knew that was what Margaery was dying to say. Why not Tyran or Robb? Anyone but the child who made her husband safe to be around and controllable.

But there was a part of Sansa, a deep and dark and vengeful part of her, who was anticipating Joffrey’s return and to watch his face crack and crumble, and his heart to shatter and ruin when he learned his son was dead. A sort of revenge, she might say, for her father and Robb and her mother and brothers and Lady, but with one look at Margaery, crying and clutching her son to her chest, Sansa knew she was the most awful person in Westeros to think that.

***

Sansa returned to Tyrion when the bells rang and Joffrey entered Margaery’s chambers. She saw the look on his face when he saw Margaery screaming over Tomas’ body. It might have been worth it if the death of an innocent child had been too much for Sansa to bear, and the screams mother and son let out would not haunt her mind for eternity.

“The bells never seem to stop ringing in this city,” Sansa whispered.

“They say it was the fever that took him.”

“Margaery thought it was just a cold.”

“How wrong she was.”

"She didn't deserve this: marrying a monster and losing her son. What if that had been us? What if Tyran and Robb-"

Sansa had not been aware that she began to cry, and her little husband went to her side, taking her delicate hand into his.

“Hush, don’t cry, my Lady. Tyran and Robb are sleeping with Jeyne and Willas and their two children. They arrived this morning. Jeyne is very eager to see you.” 

She wiped away her tears. "Tyrion, I'm sorry."

“Sorry for what?”

“Being horrible to you when we were first married: neglecting you, rejecting you. It wasn’t fair, and I think-”

“Don't blame yourself for not wanting me, Sansa. You were not to blame and you still are not. I should apologise to  _you_ for... well, for everything I suppose."

It was because of Tomas’ death that Sansa realised that life was so short. After everything, it took the death of a two week old baby for her to realise that life could snatch you away at any time. Tomas was pure and innocent; he had not killed anybody nor had he caused anyone harm or inflicted any pain.

But Tomas was Joffrey’s son, and clearly the God’s had seen fit to give Joffrey the justice he deserved: by murdering the only thing that would keep the realm safe.

***

The mourning process for Prince Tomas was unbearable. The sept was filled with every Lord and Lady of Westeros who had attended for the Prince’s demonstration so Tyrion and Sansa were wedged into the front row, stuck between his father and Tommen with Margaery in front of them weeping silently into Joffrey’s arm who stood there sullen, red-eyed and unable to look away from the corpse of his son.

Joffrey was almost human in the weeks that surrounded his son’s funeral. Tyrion never saw him cry but it was obvious that the death of his son shattered him, so much in fact that throughout the ceremony he held Princess Alyse in his arms. Princess Alysanne however, was not in attendance.

Tyrion mentioned that to Sansa, but it was Tommen who replied. “Mother says Alysanne is a curse from the Gods.”

 _Of course she would_. The dwarf looked at his ten-year-old Nephew who stood almost a foot taller than Tyrion. “And what do you think?”

Tommen shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Tommen wouldn’t know; he was a child not accustom to the idea of death.

***

Tomas’ wake was filled with people laughing and eating fine food. Sansa had expected it to be a dull affair with people crying and mourning the Prince, but the only people who fully mourned him were his parents. Margaery left half way through but Joffrey endured it, but he didn’t speak to anyone nor eat any food.

Tyrion and Sansa were put on a table with their children and the children of Jeyne and Willas. Lord Tywin had arranged the seats so undoubtedly, he wanted them to raise the issue of forging an alliance between the families. Sansa knew that specifically because he pulled her away from the parade when they returned to the Red Keep and asked her to.

Sansa intended to, but it was Jeyne who caught her out. While their husbands discussed Aegon Targaryen who still resided at Storm’s End, awaiting his Aunt who was still in Meereen to their knowledge, Jeyne raised the issue.

“Have you thought anymore about joining our houses?” She wondered.

Sansa nodded. “Bring Helena to court more often, if you would. Raise her alongside Tyran and Robb, but let’s not force them into anything.”

“Oh, I agree,” Jeyne smiled. She squeezed her friend’s arm. “I wanted to name our daughter Sansa, for you.” The sentiment was flattering. “You’re awfully brave for naming your son Robb.”

“He’s Robert, formally.”

“Even still. You’re extremely brave.”

Robb was the brave one. No one ever called Sansa brave, despite everything that had happened to her. Robb was brave because he marched into battle on a horse to avenge his father and Sansa was weak and naive because she had gone to King's Landing at will and made no attempts to escape and stayed true to Joffrey and was the good little girl they had ordered that she would be. But she was not a little girl anymore, but a wolf in a den of lions with two cubs of her own.

***

“Do you know why I married Jeyne?” Willas asked, a cup of wine in his hands. Tyrion shook his head. “Your father made me. He threatened to expose Loras for his preferences and make a scandal of the Tyrell name if I didn’t wed Jeyne. He organised a tourney at Highgarden and told the Westerling’s to attend through Jeyne’s mother. I didn’t fall in love with her, I did it to protect Willas. Don’t tell your wife this, but by the sounds of it, Sybell knew what would happen to Robb at The Twins – why else would she forbid Jeyne, Eleyna and Rollam from attending?” Tyrion shook his head. “Jeyne mentioned her mother gave her potions to increase the chances of her having a baby, but I don’t need to tell you what to make of that, do I?”

“You think her parents stayed faithful to the crown?”

“How else would they be pardoned?”

That was a good point. “So why are you telling me this?”

“I love Jeyne and I love our children. I want to know that Helena will be safe with you and away from Jeyne’s family. Please betroth her to one of your sons. It may keep her safe.”

All parents wanted were for their children to be safe. And with the recent death that shook the realm, Tyrion was more inclined to betroth Helena to one of his son’s. “It’s a sad day when parents have to fear for their children’s lives against their own grandparents.”

“It’s a sad day when parents have to fear for their children’s lives altogether.”

Tyrion raised his cup of wine. “I’ll drink to that.”


	12. Snowcastle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion ride to the Eyrie where the former has issues with the Moon Door. Petyr claims a courtesy for events and Joffrey takes his mother's advice and bonds with his daughter.

Petyr Baelish had written to Sansa, asking her to visit them at the Eyrie as a thank you for honouring Robert Arryn by naming their son after him. Sansa was pleased with the excuse to get away, but also to see her Aunt Lysa and cousin; she always gripped onto the hope of having her family reunited despite how many were deceased. Tyrion agreed and they received consent from Lord Tywin, so Tyrion and Sansa sent the orders to have a party assembled to ride to the Vale of Arryn. It would take five months to ride to the Eyrie, but maybe a week or two less if they crossed at the Trident, weather permitting.

“There always seems to be a pattern when we ride,” Sansa noted the morning they were due to ride. “Because we’re having another child.”

Tyrion laughed. “Don’t you time this perfectly?”

“Yes,” Sansa smiled. “I’m two moons gone. It will take five months to ride to the Vale. Our child will be born in the Eyrie, away from the capital and your father and Joffrey – and our baby couldn’t risk the ride back south. We might even have to stop and sail to Winterfell.”

“You’re a wishful thinker.”

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “But it could happen, couldn’t it?”

_No._

***

It did take five months to ride to the Vale as they had predicted, but it was closer to six months because of the amount of men whom were in their party.

Tyrion had not much wanted to visit the Eyrie; the last time he was there he was very nearly put to death, and he was certain that the Lady Lysa had not forgotten that quickly. But if it got his sons out of the capital he would stay at Skagos with the cannibals.

They met the Arryn’s in the same room that Tyrion had been sentenced to his trial. Not much had changed. The moon door was closed this time, which was a relief to Tyrion because there would be no chance of a quick flight back to his host. Lord Robert Arryn: the little Lord of the Vale had not forgotten him, and Lady Arryn had not forgotten that he had done, either.

“Are we going to make him fly, mother?”

It was Littlefinger who replied. “No Robert; Lord Tyrion is our honoured guest." Littlefinger descended the stairs from the throne. He kissed Sansa on her cheek twice while barely acknowledging Tyrion. “Don’t you look like your mother? So beautiful...” He stroked her cheek.

“Thank you for letting us stay, Lord Baelish.”

“Please, call me Petyr.” He put his arm through Sansa’s. “You must be tired from your ride. Please, let me show you to your chambers.”

“Petyr, silly Petyr. Sansa has only arrived! Climb up the stairs and come and give your Aunt a kiss, Sansa,” Sansa pulled away from Littlefinger and pulled her skirts around her ankles and climbed three stairs before her Aunt stopped her. “Stop! Dear girl I have forgotten your condition. Let me come down to you.” Lysa walked down the stairs with Robert Arryn clutching her hand. She kissed her Niece as Littlefinger had done. “My husband is right; you do look like Catelyn.”

“Thank you, Aunt Lysa.”

“Now my darling, how many moons are you gone?”

“Eight.”

“ _Eight_? So you shall have your baby here? Of course you shall. We will make the preparations closer to the time. I am so very sorry about your mother. It is a tragedy, and poor Robb, too. Where are your sons? I am very eager to see them.”

“Ser Ryden is unsaddling them.”

“And how old are the little darlings?”

“Tyran is two and Robb turned one recently.”

“How precious, and how honourable to have named your youngest after my Robert. Isn’t that lovely, Sweetrobin? Your cousin Sansa named her son after you.”

“Will we make him fly?”

Tyrion had informed Sansa of her cousin’s sickly state, but had lacked the details informing her Lord Robert’s fetish for throwing people out the hole in the floor called the Moon Door.

“No, we won’t make him fly, Sweetrobin,” Lysa petted her son. “When news reached me that the King’s son had died, I rejoiced but grieved for I know what it is like to lose a son. You were there when the Prince died, were you not Sansa?”

“I was,” Sansa admitted. “It was horrible.”

“I am sure, though justice for the wicked King, isn’t it? It taught him what true loss is. He was always wicked to Robert, calling him horrid names and pushing him around. His little brother Tommen was better, but only because he was younger and less wicked than Joffrey. Perhaps with his son dead, the boy King may stop taunting you over the death of your father."

He would never stop taunting Sansa about murdering Ned Stark; to Joffrey it is his greatest achievement.

***

It snowed on their second day at the Eyrie. It was a light flurry but overnight it had covered the ground outside the castle. Sansa woke before dawn, her husband snoring peacefully beside her and she climbed out of bed, dressing herself and took a fur cloak she had packed out of her trunk having not enough time the day before to unpack. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and made her way outside.

She had last seen snow the day she left Winterfell. Her boots tore ankle-deep holes into the smooth white surface of the snow, yet made no sound. Sansa drifted past frosted shrubs and thin dark trees, and wondered if she were still dreaming. Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the centre of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell.

When Sansa opened her eyes again, she was on her knees. She scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it between her fingers. Heavy and wet, the snow packed easily. She pushed snow together, packed more snow in around them, and patted the whole thing into the shape of a cylinder. When it was done, she stood it on end and used the tip of her little finger to poke holes in it for windows. The crenellations around the top took a little more care, but when they were done she had a tower. _I need some walls now_ , Sansa thought, _and then a keep. She set to work._

"Pack the snow around a stick, Sansa."

She did not know how long he had been watching her. “A stick?” She asked.

"That will give it strength enough to stand, I'd think," Petyr said. "May I come into your castle, my lady?"

Sansa was wary. "Don't break it. Be...”

"...gentle?" He smiled. "Winterfell has withstood fiercer enemies than me. It is Winterfell, is it not?"

“Yes,” Sansa admitted.

Petyr joined her in the snow. “Have your sons ever seen snow?”

Sansa shook her head. “Only summer, but winter is coming.”

He chuckled. “Are you making Winterfell?”

“Trying to, though I fear Robb could make a better castle than I.”

“It just needs some alterations.”

Petyr helped made their Snowcastle and suddenly, Sansa felt like the sixteen-year-old girl she should be, awaiting marriage and learning hymns in the sept, not married and with her third child. It was not the life she had planned for herself in Winterfell so many years ago, but it was the life she knew was safest.

Before Sansa knew it, their castle was complete. She looked at Petyr and beamed. “It’s beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Sansa felt her cheeks reddening. Petyr stepped closer to her and Sansa tried to stand back. but he pulled her into his arms and suddenly he was kissing her. Feebly, she tried to squirm, but only succeeded in pressing herself more tightly against him. His mouth was on hers, swallowing her words. He tasted of mint. For half a heartbeat she yielded to his kiss... before she turned her face away and wrenched free. "What are you doing?"

Petyr straightened his cloak. "Kissing a snow maid."

“I am not a maid and not yours to kiss. You’re supposed to kiss my Aunt Lysa,” she glanced up to her Aunt’s balcony. “My husband...”

“I do kiss my wife as you kiss my husband. Neither of us are happy in our marriages. I wish you could see yourself, my lady. You are so beautiful. You are wasted on the imp. How long have you been out here? You must be very cold. Let me warm you, Sansa. Take off those gloves, give me your hands."

“N-no!” She stammered. She stood up and towered over Petyr. “I-I have children!”

“And those children could have been mine! Sansa, leave the Eyrie with me right now and we can have children of our own. We’ll raise the baby inside of you and go to Winterfell. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

She shoved him away from her. “I could be your _daughter_ if you had married my mother.”

"Might have been," he admitted, with a rueful smile. "But you're not, are you? You are Eddard Stark's daughter, and Cat's. But I think you might be even more beautiful than your mother was, when she was your age."

"Petyr, please." Her voice sounded so weak. "Please...”

***

She was terrified.

She paced her chambers, trembling like a leaf. _He kissed me. He kissed me!_ It terrified her because what if someone had seen? What if her husband had witnessed him kiss her and what if he did something crazy? What if he left her at the Eyrie. What if he made her fly? What if Lady Lysa made her sons fly if she had seen rather that Tyrion...

Sansa was summoned to see her Aunt, her heart pounding in her chest. Sansa walked down the blue silk carpet between rows of fluted pillars slim as lances. The floors and walls of the High Hall were made of milk-white marble veined with blue. Shafts of pale daylight slanted down through narrow arched windows along the eastern wall. Between the windows were torches, mounted in high iron sconces, but none of them was lit. Her footsteps fell softly on the carpet. Outside the wind blew cold and lonely.

Sansa stopped before the dais, and curtsied. "My lady. You sent for me." She could still hear the sound of the wind, and the soft chords Marillion the singer was playing at the foot of the hall.

"I saw what you did," the Lady Lysa said. Sansa said nothing. “I saw you kiss him.”

Terrified scarcely covered it. Tyrion had warned her that her Aunt was deluded, that she had attempted to sentence him to death with no solid evidence.

“He kissed me.”

Lysa's nostrils flared. "And why would he do that? He has a wife who loves him. A woman grown, not a little girl. He has no need for the likes of you. Confess, child. You threw yourself at him. That was the way of it."

Sansa stepped backwards. “That’s not true.”

"I was building a snow castle," Sansa said. "Lord Petyr was helping me, and then he kissed me. That's what you saw."

"Be quiet, I haven't given you leave to speak. You enticed him, just as your mother did that night in Riverrun, with her smiles and her dancing. You think I could forget? That was the night I stole up to his bed to give him comfort. I bled, but it was the sweetest hurt. He told me he loved me then, but he called me Cat, just before he fell back to sleep. Even so, I stayed with him until the sky began to lighten. Your mother did not deserve him. She would not even give him her favour to wear when he fought Brandon Stark. I would have given him my favour. I gave him everything. He is mine now. Not Catelyn's and not yours."

“I don’t want him!” Sansa began to ache. She could feel the child writhing inside her. _Gods_ , she thought, _my baby is coming_. “Aunt Lysa, my baby-”

“Baby! Lucky you,” Lysa shrilled. “We made a baby, Petyr and I. When they stole him from me, I made a promise to myself that I would never let it happen again. Jon wished to send my sweet Robert to Dragonstone, and that sot of a king would have given him to Cersei Lannister, but I never let them... no more than I'll let you steal my Petyr Littlefinger. Do you hear me, Sansa? Do you hear what I am telling you?"

"Yes. I swear, I won't ever kiss him again, or... or entice him." Sansa thought that was what her aunt wanted to hear and whatever would get her out of the room and get her the help she needed. Her baby was arriving and it was beating against her belly as if ripping itself out of her.

"So you admit it now? It was you, just as I thought. You are as wanton as your mother." Lysa grabbed her by the wrist. "Come with me now. There is something I want to show you."

"You're hurting me." Sansa squirmed. "Please, Aunt Lysa, I haven't done anything. I swear it."

Lady Lysa pulled at Sansa's arm. It was either walk or be dragged, so she chose to walk, halfway down the hall and between a pair of pillars, to a white weirwood door set in the marble wall. The door was firmly closed, with three heavy bronze bars to hold it in place, but Sansa could hear the wind outside worrying at its edges. When she saw the crescent moon carved in the wood, she planted her feet. "The Moon Door." She tried to yank free. "Why are you showing me the Moon Door?"

Lysa had tried to send Tyrion down the Moon Door and now it was obvious that Lysa was trying to do the same to Sansa.

"You squeak like a mouse now, but you were bold enough in the garden, weren't you? You were bold enough in the snow. "Open the door," Lysa commanded. "Open it, I say. You will do it, or I'll send for my guards." She shoved Sansa forward. "Your mother was brave, at least. Lift off the bars." Sansa did as commanded, believing if she did so her Aunt would let her go. "Do you still want my leave to go? Do you?"

“No,” Sansa squeaked. She wanted to scream, but when she tried no noise came out of her mouth. “Not this way. Please Aunt Lysa.” Sansa could feel snowflakes melting on her cheeks. Sansa flailed, found Lysa's thick auburn braid, and clutched it tight. "My hair!" her aunt shrieked. "Let go of my hair!" She was shaking, sobbing. They teetered on the edge. Far off, she heard the guards pounding on the door with their spears, demanding to be let in.

"Lysa! What's the meaning of this?" The shout cut through the sobs and heavy breathing. Footsteps echoed down the High Hall. "Get back from there! Lysa, what are you doing?" The guards were still beating at the door; Littlefinger had come in the back way, through the lords' entrance behind the dais. “What is the trouble here?”

“Her. She’s the trouble. She kissed you.”

"She's a child, Lysa. Cat's daughter. What did you think you were doing?"

“She is already married! You are not hers to kiss. Not hers! I was teaching her a lesson, that was all."

"I see." He stroked his chin. "I think she understands now. Isn't that so, Sansa?”

"Yes," sobbed Sansa. "I understand."

“I want you gone,” Lysa snapped at Sansa. “Now. I want you and your twisted little husband and your children away from the Eyrie.”

“We’ll send her back to King’s Landing,” Petyr soothed. "There's no cause for all these tears."

"Tears, tears, tears," she sobbed hysterically. "No need for tears... but that's not what you said in King's Landing. You told me to put the tears in Jon's wine, and I did. For Robert, and for us! And I wrote Catelyn and told her the Lannister’s had killed my lord husband, just as you said. That was so clever... you were always clever, I told Father that, I said Petyr's so clever, he'll rise high, he will, he will, and he's sweet and gentle and I have his little baby in my belly... Why did you kiss her? Why? We're together now, we're together after so long, so very long, why would you want to kiss her?”

"Lysa," Petyr sighed, "after all the storms we've suffered, you should trust me better. I swear, I shall never leave your side again, for as long as we both shall live."

"Truly?" she asked, weeping. "Oh, truly?"

"Truly. Now unhand the girl and come give me a kiss."

ysa threw herself into Littlefinger's arms, sobbing. As they hugged, Sansa crawled from the Moon Door on hands and knees and wrapped her arms around the nearest pillar. She could feel her heart pounding. There was snow in her hair and her right shoe was missing. It must have fallen. She shuddered, and hugged the pillar tighter. The pain she felt in her belly was agonising. She kept wanting to scream, but the terror inside her was too much so she sobbed instead.

Sansa had missed what had happened, but when she saw Petyr push her Aunt Lysa out of the Moon Door, she heard her mother’s name mentioned, and Petyr ran to Sansa.

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

She was frightened to be in his arms. “The-the baby!”

The guards were shouting outside the door, pounding with the butts of their heavy spears. Lord Petyr pulled Sansa to her feet. "You're not hurt?" When she shook her head, he said, "Run let my guards in, then. Quick now, there's no time to lose. This singer's killed my lady wife."

Then everything went blank and Sansa fainted into Lord Petyr’s arms.

***

When Sansa awoke she felt a jolt of pain fill her body. At first, it was the physical pain that hurt her, then it was the pain she remembered with her Aunt Lysa. She jumped upwards, but the pain she felt against her stomach pulled her back down and she resided herself to the fact she would not be able to move from the bed she was laying on without hurting herself.

She heard a voice. “Such a pretty girl.”

It was Littlefinger. She relaxed no less when it was a familiar face and voice. If anything it made her more alert; she had watched him murder his own wife and push her through the Moon Door.

“How long have I been asleep for?”

“Three days. The milk of the poppy Maester Coleman gave you put you to sleep while the Nurses cut you open and pulled your daughter from you. I instructed him to give you more throughout the days; I didn’t want you to be in pain and suffer.”

 _Suffer the birth or remember what you did_? “What’s happened?”

“Well, Marillion is in a sky cell and confessed to killing your Aunt.”

“But that’s not true.”

“Only you and I and Marillion know that, but it is his word against ours and he wouldn’t dare speak against me. Not now anyway that I’m Lord Protector of the Vale.”

“And does Tyrion?”

“He is relieved that you and your daughter survived.”

 _Daughter._ As Petyr spoke to her, she had forgotten about her daughter. Sansa ordered Littlefinger to give her the daughter he held in his arms, and he kissed the little girl on the top of her head and gave her to Sansa. Petyr was right by saying that she was very pretty. She had a small nose, blue eyes and red hair. She looked a lot like Robb when he was a baby apart from the eyes; she had Sansa’s eyes.

“May I make a suggestion to you? Would you name your daughter Lysa?”

Sansa blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just teasing. Have you got a name for her?"

“Catelyn,” said Sansa automatically, “but I know I can’t.”

“What about Alayne?”

"Alayne?"

"The name of my mother. I thought it would be a kindness to grace my mother as you did with Lord Robert. It can be a token from time well spent at the Eyrie, a reminder that I saved your life."

It was a pretty name and small debt to pay Littlefinger. Wasn't keeping his secret enough for him? Obviously not. But Alayne was a very pretty name, but a name that Sansa had not yet considered. 

“It’s a lovely name.”

***

How Littlefinger would boast once he and his wife left the Eyrie that Sansa and Tyrion Lannister had named their daughter after Littlefinger’s mother. Tyrion knew it was Littlefinger’s idea when Sansa had suggested it. Littlefinger had supposedly saved Sansa’s life against Marillion the singer who pushed her Aunt out of the Moon Door. Littlefinger called it a courtesy.

“Papa,” whined Tyran. “Papa where’s sister?”

“Sleeping.”

“Where’s Mama?”

“Sleeping.”

Tyrion pulled his golden haired son onto his lap and kissed his head. “What’s your sister called?”

“Alayne.”

“Good boy,” Tyrion praised. Lord Tywin had shoved the names of all of Tyran’s ancestors down his throat since he could talk but had neglected to teach Robb the same or teach Tyran his mother’s family. Tyrion decided to test him. “And what is your grandfather’s father’s name?”

Tyran had recited it for Lord Tywin before they left, but Tyran had forgotten now. “And what is your mother’s father called?”

“Ned Stark.”

“And his wife?”

“Catelyn Stark.”

“And their children?”

“Robb like my brother. Mama, Arya, Brandon and Rickard.”

“Rickon. Rickard is your mother’s grandfather,” but never the less, Tyrion rewarded Tyran with a sweet from the middle of the table. “Very good. You’re very clever. Don’t ever forget who they are, and be certain to tell your grandfather when we get back home.”

 _Home_. It was harrowing to think that King’s Landing would be home to their children and not their designated lands: the West for Tyran and the North for Robb and wherever Alayne married to, preferably the South; Willas and Jeyne were kind and their son would be too.

“When do we go home?”

“When Mama’s better,” Tyrion informed.

“When’s that?”

“Soon. Within the month.”

“I don’t like it here,” Tyran confessed. “It’s cold.”

“Home will be too.”

“I don’t like the cold. I like the hotness.”

“So do I."

***

Cersei looked down at her Grandchildren. She had not expected Joffrey to neglect them so much. They were not sons, but they were still his children – or so Margaery claimed. Alyse was two-years-old and never once had she spent time with her father. 

“Joffrey,” Cersei addressed him as they broke their fast. “How are your daughters?”

“How should I know?”

“Because they are your daughters.”

Joffrey looked as if he despised her. “I don’t want them.”

“My darling boy, you cannot choose whether you want them or not. They are your daughters, your Princesses and you are their father. They need your guidance and your support. Have you ever held Alysanne?”

“No,” Joffrey admitted. “It should have been her that died. Not Tomas.”

“Don’t ever say that again,” Cersei snapped. “Don’t ever wish your child dead.”

He looked almost guilty. “Mother, I don’t know what to do with them.”

“Love them,” Cersei suggested. She took her son’s hand. “Do I love Myrcella any less than you or Tommen because she is a girl? Margaery is with child, she will give you another son in due course. I pray to the Gods everyday that you will not face the same fate with your new child. Do you pray for that?”

“I pray for a son.”

“Do you pray for your daughters?”

“Why should I waste my time? They are of no use to me.”

Cersei’s hold of her son’s hand tightened and when Joffrey tried to wrench free, she only gripped harder. “You underestimate women, Joff. Those girls will blossom and grow and you will regret ever neglecting them I promise you that. When you give them to their husbands you will feel remorse when you watch another man take her in their arms. Now I want you to go to Alyse and apologise to her for not being there.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I am your mother and I will. I remember how upset you were about how little your father cared about you. Do you want these girls to feel the same you did? They might not be sons but they are your children: your flesh and blood and you _will_ respect them and look after them. You still have time to make things right. Just remember how you felt whenever Robert cast you aside for his whores. Do you want to be the same man he was?”

He didn’t. “I will never be like him.”

“Good. Now go to your daughters. It will make Margaery happy and it will make your life less sufferable. You won’t need to love Margaery but you will love your daughters. Now go to them or the Realm will learn from them how wicked you were to them. They might rise against you when they marry and they might rebel.  You don’t want that, do you?”

“They wouldn’t rebel because I don’t like them.”

“Rhaegar Targaryen planned to overthrow his father because he was insane and wanted the throne. Alyse or Alysanne might plan to overthrow you for revenge. If we are blessed, Margaery will present him you with a son in two months. Alyse and Alysanne will be jealous of the affection you give him over them and they may plan to hurt him to get your attention as you did with that cat. You can stop that if you give them your time. You are the King. You do not want to lose your throne to your own daughters.”

Joffrey studied his mother and began to pick at the shell of his egg with his fingernail, and then he looked at her. “What do I do with then?”

“Play with your daughter. Buy her a doll. Buy her a new gown. You have no business today so send your men to buy Alyse a doll and give it to her. You might like her, and Margaery will be grateful to you for it.”

“I’ll give it a chance. At least I’d have tried.”

“You will have done.”

There was a lengthy pause. “Mother, do you think it’s bad idea Tyran and Robb were granted the North and the West?”

Automatically: “Yes. One day, the realm will suffer from it.”

“Should I do anything about it?”

Cersei’s eyes glimmered. “When the time is right, I will tell you what to do and this is not the time."

***

Before noon, one of Joffrey’s men returned to the King with a doll. It was the length of Joffrey’s forearm: a pretty maiden with curly golden hair and a blue gown. Joffrey took it from his man and went to his daughter’s chambers.

He did not knock on the door and he found Alyse with her Septa Sesame. “Septa, leave me with my daughter. I wish to give her something.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

The Septa was of an age with his own mother, and she bowed to the King and left the room swiftly. Alyse was sat on the floor playing with a wooden horse and rider. With a glance over his shoulder, Joffrey stepped towards his daughter and sat down beside her.

“Hello,” Joffrey greeted.

“Hello.”

She had a high voice and seemed uninterested in Joffrey’s arrival. She continued to play with her horse, pushing it along the stone floor and Joffrey fingered the doll’s golden hair.

“I got you a present.”

Alyse spun to look at him with her bright green eyes. When Joffrey held out the doll he realised that the doll had been modelled after his own daughter: a pretty, frail thing with curly golden hair and big green eyes. Alyse’s face lit up when Joffrey showed her.

“For me?”

Joffrey handed it to her and she took it. When Alyse sat down, the doll was almost bigger than her, and she stroked its blue gown.

“Will you play with me?”

Joffrey nodded. “What are you playing?”

“With my horse.”

“What’s your horse called?”

“Horsie.”

“You have to give it a proper name.” Joffrey was irritated with Alyse; she was dumb and couldn’t string a proper sentence together. He would leave her in a few minutes and proclaim to his mother that he tried his hardest but the girl was a persistent brute. “Well give it a name.”

She smiled at Joffrey and stood up on her feet. She waddled towards the King and fell onto him, almost knocking him backwards. She lay on his legs, beaming up at him. “I’ll name him Joffrey.”

Joffrey smiled at his daughter and held her in his arms. “And what about the Knight?”

“Joffrey.”

“And the doll?”

“Cersei.”

Perhaps Alyse was not as stupid as she appeared to be, Joffrey noted. “Do you like the doll?”

“Yes, Papa. She looks like me.”

“I think it’s supposed to be you because you’re a Princess. Just a way to make money though... Has anybody shown you my throne?”

Alyse shook her head. “They say I’m too little.”

“Well I say,” Joffrey rose to his feet and pulled Alyse into his arms as she clutched onto her doll. “That you are never too little to sit on your father’s throne. Grandfather is taking court but we’ll interrupt him. We could banish some people, if you like, or cut out their tongues. Would you like that?”

Alyse nodded. “Their heads!”

Joffrey cackled but by the end of court, Princess Alyse had demanded three men’s head and seven men’s tongues. If that wasn’t a good way to get Joffrey’s attention, then there were no other alternatives. Alyse sat on his lap with her doll on hers throughout the court. She did not look like the sort of little girl who would sentence men to death, but she was Joffrey’s daughter, and she had her father’s wickedness.


	13. Boys and Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion return to the capitol, Tyrion asks Bronn to join their household, Sansa learns the name of Joffrey's son and heir, Princess Alyse proves more difficult that first believed and a threat to the crown is murdered.

“She sentenced _eleven_ men to death?”

“Three of them were your own soldiers who had raped a tavern girl.”

“Well they deserved to be punished for what they did, but death is not the punishment for rape. The girl is barely two-years-old and she’s already passing death sentences? Who is she? The Stranger’s daughter?”

Before reaching the city, Tyrion, Sansa, Tyran, Robb and Alayne stayed with Bronn and his wife Lollys at Stokeworth. They delayed returning to the Red Keep as much as possible: including taking the longer route home, adding an extra fortnight to the journey, taking them six months to return to King’s Landing. Now they were on their final night and would arrive at the Red Keep on the morrow.

“No,” Bronn denied. “She’s King Joffrey’s daughter.”

“And what about Princess Alysanne? Is she as evil as her older sister?”

“She’s one-years-old and can seldom talk. I don’t think you need to worry about her taking your head.”

“But the King has a son now,” Tyrion informed. “One that survived his presentation.”

“Every time he coughs King Joffrey and Queen Margaery are at his side with Maesters and Nurses. The boy is two months old and still they rush to him every time he makes a sound. The boy is sickly.”

Tyrion frowned. “How so?”

“Maester Pycelle gave the Queen one potion to keep her strong throughout her nine months, while Maester Qyburn gave her another to ensure that it is a boy. Clearly Qyburn’s worked and not Pycelle’s because the boy was born two months late, weak and frail. Everybody was shocked he lived longer than his brother.”

“Fantastic,” Tyrion noted dryly. “Another mourning will plague the capitol.”

“But now Queen Margaery can’t have any more children; with the new Prince’s birth it damaged her and she was unconscious for days. They won’t present their son until she’s fully recovered and they decided on a name.”

“And how do you know all of this?”

“I fuck one of the Queen’s handmaidens from time to time and she loves to gossip.”

Tyrion considered him. “More wine.”

“If it pleases m’Lord,” Tyrion poured himself and the sellsword each a cup of wine. “So what about you and your wife? Three children, will you make a fourth?”

“No; three are enough.”

“I always imagined you with a huge family. Ten little dwarfish children being little bastards at court, pissing off all the high Lords and Ladies.”

“Three is enough, believe me.”

“Aye, one is enough for me and the bastard’s not even mine. Fuck this. Say we leave our women and take to the Free Cities, fucking whores and drinking wine and living in palaces. They say if you fuck a Lysene girl you’re blessed by the God’s.”

“I’m certain they do, but I can’t leave Sansa and my children.”

“I don’t like you now that you have children; you’re no fun.”

“I am fun, I just have a responsibility now, three responsibilities – _four_ , if you count my wife. We’ve been married four years, I think it is, and each year but our first she has presented me with a child, but she is still hesitant to her feelings towards me. Believe me, if I didn’t have Tyran, Robb and Alayne, I would have boarded that ship with you by now.”

“I believe you mean it,” said Bronn. He drained his wine. “So why have you stayed at my wife’s home?”

“Because I want you to come back to the Red Keep with me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dull, because I want to shoot a crossbow arrow through everybody who lives there, and I do believe you tire of your life here with the Stokeworth’s.” Bronn confirmed the last statement. “And my children are not safe. Tyran, I am certain father will keep safe, but Robb on the other hand: named for two dead Kings and the Heir to Winterfell. I need someone trustworthy to defend him. Someone like you.”

“You want me to defend your infant son?”

“Robb is two and soon to turn three. It would get you away from your wife and closer to the Queen’s maid you are fucking and anyone else you wish to pursue for that matter. I know you will keep my son safe, too.”

“I’d rather keep your daughter safe; she’ll have maids looking after her I wouldn’t mind sticking it to.”

“Alayne will be safe; she poses no threat to the Realm and father knows he will manipulate her to join alliances with other houses. Marrying the Granddaughter of Tywin Lannister is seen as a great accomplishment amongst the Highborn. Robb however... Robb is in the greatest danger.”

“How much are you willing to pay me?”

“As much as last time.”

“I want more. I’m having to leave my lovely home here, and my beautiful wife to defend your child.”

“You want to leave Stokeworth and return to the Red Keep, you’re just too interested in my gold to state otherwise. Alright, you’ll get an extra gold dragon and three silvers on top of what I will pay you. Do we have an agreement?”

“Aye, we have an agreement alright. So what are my orders?”

“You’re to stand guard at his door, day and night. Allow no one to enter his chambers but Sansa and I unless given permission. You’ll defend him from anyone who tries to take his life even if that means losing yours. Are we understood?”

“We’re understood,” Bronn confirmed.

***

Joffrey didn’t deserve such a peaceful child.

Tyran, Robb and Alayne had kept Sansa awake at nights in their early months, but Margaery informed Sansa when she returned to the Red Keep that the Prince seldom cried at night, never requested her breast when she was sleeping and never spit up on her or Joffrey when they held him. Margaery called him a blessing from the Gods. Sansa called it unfair.

“I hear you had an eventful stay at the Eyrie.”

Of course the news of Lady Lysa’s death would reach the Red Keep in no time at all. “It was horrible.”

“You poor thing. Still, it was very brave that Lord Baelish saved you and honourable of you to name your daughter after his mother. Did he have to ask or did you do it anyway?”

Margaery was weak and tired: her face pale and her brown eyes sunk into her face. She would recover soon and return to her spritely and beautiful self and they would present the Unnamed Prince to court.

“He asked me to.”

“Is the Eyrie as beautiful as all the songs say?”

It had been beautiful until her Aunt Lysa had shown her more of the Eyrie than she intended to see. “Even more so, and it snowed there.”

“How beautiful. Willas and Jeyne rode to the capitol to see my Prince. They thought you and Tyrion would be here; they didn’t know you had gone to the Vale. Jeyne says you intend to marry darling Helena to one of your sons. Do you know which one?”

“Tyran,” Sansa decided. “Tyrion thought it would be better if he married into a Western family to help keep alliances.”

“Have you had many offers for Robb?”

“And Alayne; Lord Baelish asked if Alayne could marry Lord Robert, and Lord Vypren asked to marry Alayne to his Grandson Rickard. I suppose you’ve had many requests for Princesses Alyse and Alysanne, and more for the Prince.”

“We get letters everyday for him,” Margaery was proud. “Everyone wants their daughter to be Queen one day.”

Sansa didn’t want Alayne to be Queen. Sansa wanted Alayne away from the Red Keep as soon as she was old enough to marry. Hopefully, she could send Alayne to Highgarden to marry Haelan, or she could live with Tyran at Casterly Rock or Robb at Winterfell.

“Have you thought of a name for him yet?”

Margaery glanced over to where her son slept in his crib. “No, but I wish everyone would stop calling him the Unnamed Prince. We have chosen a name for him, but we want it to be announced formally.”

“Does anyone know?”

“Only Joffrey and I.”

“Would you tell me?”

Margaery laughed. “No, but I think you’ll like it. It was Joffrey’s idea.”

 _Gods_ , Sansa thought. If Joffrey chose the name it would be something vile and disgusting like him. Perhaps he would even name his son after himself. It was the sort of psychotic, conceited act he would do.

“There are no other Lords with his name. I think Joffrey invented it. He’s so clever. I hope our little Prince inherits Joffrey’s cleverness.”

 _I hope not_. “And Alyse and Alysanne,” Sansa asked hesitantly. “Has his Grace warmed to them?”

Something flashed across Margaery’s face that was unmistakable to Sansa. It was something that looked like fear. Had Joffrey mistreated them? Had he done something worse?

Quietly: “No doubt you’ve heard the rumours. Sansa, I once prayed to the Gods that Joffrey would acknowledge his daughters more, but now I pray for the opposite. At court, he sits with Alyse on his right knee and Alysanne on the other and lets them decide if a man is guilty or not, and they long to please their father so they always demand their lives or their limbs. Lord Tywin has tried to stop him, but... When I tried to Alyse screamed at me. She’s never raised her voice to me. He’s corrupted my children. I won’t let him touch Lucian.”

 _Lucian_. There was something about his name that sent chills down Sansa’s spine. _Lucian_. It was a frightening name, even for the little golden haired boy who slept peacefully in his crib, suckling his thumb. _Lucian_.

***

Prince Lucian’s presentation went better than it had done for his now deceased elder brother. All the Lords and Ladies arrived with their household to see the little Prince presented to court.

Joffrey and Margaery towered above them all, Joffrey holding his son in his arms with the Princesses Alyse and Alysanne beside him. Joffrey’s new crown was a shining gold with roses with ruby centres snaking across the antlers. Margaery’s was gold and soft and dainty with roses and antlers like her husband’s. The Princesses crowns were silver, similar to their father’s with roses growing between the antlers. Both girls wore matching dresses, their blonde hair pushed back into their tiny tiaras, adorned in crimson silk with golden roses while their mother wore a golden gown with white roses. The King stood taller than them all with his son in his arms. He swaggered to the front of the platform.

Lord Petyr Baelish was amongst those in attendance, with Robert Arryn by his side, and later he and all the other Lord’s of the Vale swore allegiance to Joffrey. Tyrion wondered how in the name of the God’s Littlefinger had wangled that.

“I, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the first of his name, present to you my son and heir of the Houses Baratheon and Tyrell, Prince Lucian.”

The room burst into applause and cheers for the crowned Prince. Undoubtedly, there would be a large increase in the number of babies born Lucian for the next few years as there had been for Joffrey and Myrcella and for Tommen.

They were pushed on for a royal banquet in the gardens as there had been for the royal wedding. The five royals sat on the middle table with two others surrounding them: Joffrey’s family and Margaery’s family. Sansa and Tyrion and their children took up a majority of the table and Alayne was pushed off to the side to make room, where as the Tyrell’s seated neatly all on one table.

All the decorations were red, gold and green and that was all people were allowed to wear. Sansa opted for green and Tyrion for red, their three children alternated between them. The tables were covered in red fabric with golden roses and the cutlery had roses carved into them. It was all so extravagant it made Tyrion wonder where in the name of the Gods they got all the money from.

Then Joffrey made a toast. “My Lords, my Ladies, my family,” he nodded towards the table where his mother, grandfather, brother, uncle, aunt and cousins sat at, and then to the Tyrell’s on the other side. “Today is a glorious day for all. Today, my son is presented to you all, but today is also a time to remember those whom we have lost to battles and sickness. My father, Robert of the House Baratheon, died five years ago and my son, Tomas, died only one. It is three hundred-and-three-years since Aegon’s Conquest and I am pleased to announce, that his Grandson, Prince Aegon Targaryen was killed by my father-in-law Mace Tyrell, just a few days past.”

The court had kept this quiet from him, Tyrion mused as he applauded with the rest of them. It was one less opponent to face, but they still had Stannis Baratheon at the Wall to deal with, with rumours surfacing that he was already at Winterfell.

“And I have just as good news as well,” Joffrey declared, and he held up his cup of wine. “That our alliance with Dorne has been finalised; for my sister, Princess Myrcella, has married the Prince Trystane.”

The noise of a cup hitting the floor was easier for Tyrion to hear than the roars of applause from the guests. Tyrion looked around and saw that the cup had been dropped by Cersei, who had fled the scene. Tyrion caught his father’s eye, and he merely nodded.

“But Myrcella is thirteen.”

“You initiated the marriage,” Tywin reminded sullenly. “You just forgot to withdraw.”

With Oberyn Martell no longer in King’s Landing where they could use him as a hostage, Tyrion had forgotten to send a party to Dorne to retrieve Myrcella before she could be tied to Dorne for the remainder of her life, and with Aegon Targaryen murdered once more, Tyrion dreaded to think the fate his niece would face now, and it was all his fault.

***

Sansa could sense her husband’s anxiety when they returned to their chambers. He paced the room and was tetchy with his wife, snapping at her constantly. The finally, when Tyrion calmed down, he threw himself onto the bed and sighed.

“They’re going to kill her, Sansa. They’re going to butcher her like my father’s men did to Rhaenys and Aegon and present her to my Grandfather in crimson silk. I would call it justice if it we were in the other position.”

“They wouldn’t kill Myrcella,” said Sansa meekly. “She’s too valuable if Dorne rises against us.”

 _Us,_ since when had it been us? “No, but they’re likely to do to her what the King did to you: beat her, torment her. Cersei’s furious. She’d go to Dorne today if she didn’t think Tommen was in danger now that father wants to marry him to Margaery’s cousin Elinor Tyrell. The minute she turns her back the wedding will happen and it would turn to her to choose between marrying another one of her son’s to another Tyrell, or saving Myrcella from harm.”

Sansa knew which one she would choose. “But surely she’d save Myrcella.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Cersei wept when Myrcella was sent away. She’ll want her back.”

“I don’t know how my sister’s mind works. She doesn’t like other people manipulating her sons. If I was ever in her position, I’d take Tommen _with_ me to Dorne and then board a ship and flee. Joffrey is fine at King’s Landing. Keep her other two, undamaged children safe.”

Sansa paid little attention to the end of Tyrion’s decision. “We might have to choose one day.”

Tyrion sat up in bed and gave Sansa a look. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying we might have to choose between our children,” she crossed the room and poured two cups of wine. “What if they wish to marry Alayne to a Martell, or Robb or Tyran to a Greyjoy or Baratheon?”

“The realm isn’t that stupid Sansa; they know they’ll be killed if they send them.”

“But would they really care?”

***

Tyrion knew his father valued the lives of Tyran and Robb too much to waste them in a futile plot of marriage; he needed Tyran as his heir and Robb to inherit Winterfell off the Bolton’s or Stannis Baratheon or whoever had decided to settle in the North. Sansa would always be frightened for her life and now her children’s. Tyrion, however, knew strategy better than his wife, and knew the lives of Robb and Tyran were secure.

Alayne however was nothing but a pawn to be played with in his father’s eyes. Tyrion imagined the look on Tywin’s face when he discovered that he had another Grandchild to sell. The look made Tyrion sick.

“My father is many things, but he needs Tyran and Robb for his control.”

“And Alayne?”

“He’ll marry her to a Southern or Eastern Lord’s firstborn son to ensure alliances I suppose, and father’s twisted our plan to marry Helena to Tyran, claiming it to be his idea. He’s dead set on the union, actually; I swear the table rises three inches whenever it’s mentioned.”

Sansa handed him the wine, but she didn’t laugh or smile. “Tyrion, I don’t want any more children. We should have stopped at Robb.”

Tyrion agreed. “Well it’s your decision. My sister stopped at three, as did my father though he had little choice. I doubt it would be suspicious.”

“I always hoped I’d have a large family,” Sansa said dreamily, sitting on the bed next to her husband. “Like my parents.”

 _Yes,_ Tyrion thought. _Your parents had too many children and couldn’t hold onto one without him dying._ Sansa and Jon Snow were the only confirmed surviving Stark children, but Sansa never spoke of him. Tyrion wondered why she never spoke of him; perhaps the thought of Winterfell and her life before King’s Landing was too painful for her. He then questioned if he should arrange for them to be reunited, but if Jon came to King’s Landing he wouldn’t return to the wall alive.

***

Tyrion broke his fast with his sister one morning: a rarity if there ever was one. It had been to her invitation that he dined with her, and it could only be in reference to one thing.

“I blame you,” she announced the instant he entered her solar. “For Myrcella.”

“I accept the blame, but it is a good alliance with the Martell’s.”

“The Martell’s will rally to the side of Daenerys Targaryen and she will extract her revenge on Myrcella and _slaughter_ her. Father refuses to retrieve her from Dorne. Tyrion, I need you to make him see sense.”

Tyrion let out a long sigh. “What do you suppose I do?”

“You sent her there so I want you to bring her back?”

“And what does the King make of this arrangement?”

Hesitantly: “Joffrey sees no fault – he is oblivious to the danger Myrcella is in. That evil little whore of a wife of his has corrupted him and poisoned his daughters. They would never be like that if it wasn’t for her influence. I want them away from Margaery.”

“You wish to separate a mother from her daughters?” Tyrion feigned shock. “How hypocritical of you.”

“Myrcella was not in danger from me. Alyse sentenced fifteen men to their deaths in one day.”

“I recall it was eleven.”

“You weren’t here! If it wasn’t for Joffrey stopping her it would have been more. He’s a doting father to his three children, but it’s all Margaery’s fault.”

Tyrion doubted it was Margaery’s influence that caused Alyse to kill eleven men, but the desperation she felt to please her father. Tyrion had seen that all too often in Joffrey and King Robert.

The dwarf sat opposite his sister. “What do you suppose I do?”

“Care for Lucian. Look after him. Limit the time he spends with his mother. That shouldn’t be too difficult; lie and say you want one of your children to be close to the Prince to ensure friendships in the future as you’ve so cleverly done with Willas Tyrell’s children.”

“Tyran is to marry Helena.”

“You’re to bring more Tyrell’s into our castle?”

“Actually, they’ll be at Casterly Rock; Tyran and Helena will wed after Helena turns thirteen unless she hasn’t bled yet to which we’ll wait. So you want Sansa and I to foster Lucian, so to speak?”

Cersei’s eyes glimmered. “Yes. Father agreed to teach Lucian the same that he teaches his heir once Lucian’s older. They’ll learn together and your other son and Lucian will learn to fight together.”

“Need I remind you not to refer to my children as ‘your eldest son’ or the ‘Heir to’ whichever son you’re referencing to.”

“Fine,” Cersei snapped impatiently. “Lucian and Robb will train together and Tyran and Lucian will learn together. Is that better?”

Tyrion nodded. “I suppose you’re to thank for Joffrey’s reconciliation with his daughter’s?”

Proudly: “Of course.”

“And has father ever said more about your wedding any other men?”

“Not after the other one died, no.”

“You ordered another man’s death?”

She didn’t deny it. “He was from the Summer Isles.”

“Oh well that’s understandable,” remarked Tyrion sardonically.

Cersei glared at him and she leaned across the table to retrieve her wine. “Have you heard anything about Jaime?”

“He lifted the siege at Riverrun and is somewhere in the Riverlands now I expect.”

“So you don’t know?”

“No.”

“And why was it so important that he personally had to go to the Riverlands and not order some of our men to do it instead?”

“Perhaps the influence of the Kingslayer still strikes fear to some men. But now he has Edmure Tully, his wife and son at Casterly Rock as our hostages.”

“Is that why father refuses to let you go to Casterly Rock?”

He glared at his elder sister. “How did you know that?”

“He told me. He also told me that he plans to have the Tully boy marry your Alayne to ensure their fealty to the crown.”

“Really? I heard he plans to have him marry Alysanne.”

Glaring: “Alysanne’s too honourable for a traitor’s son.”

“But I’m not for a traitor’s daughter?”

Cersei laughed and she quickly drained her cup of wine, refilling it. “You did well by planning your son’s betrothal to Helena Tyrell; Tyran can’t be used against you now. But you still have two children who will blossom as beautifully as their mother and you will have to deal with betrothal after betrothal offerings as I did with Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella.”

“So tell me, sweet sister, how are you managing to avoid the marriage of Elinor Tyrell and Tommen?”

She smirked. “Elinor Tyrell may come down with an awful disease before her wedding that will make her incapable to say her vows to my little Tommen or consummate it.”

“I could exploit your plans to father as easily as I could pour myself a cup of wine. Why do you confide in me?”

She swirled her wine around in her golden chalice and studied it as if it was the single most fascinating sight to behold. “Because I know I can trust you, and that you respect our relationship too much to jeopardise it by running to father.”

“What relationship?”

“That I will inform you of all my schemes and you can help me. You want to see Tommen marry Elinor Tyrell as much as I do. I can see it in your face; you love my son.”

“I do,” Tyrion admitted. “Tommen, that is.”

“So you want to see him married well, and to someone who wouldn’t manipulate him?”

“Of course.”

“He’s fond of a girl in the Vale who came to visit with her brother for Lucian’s presentation. She’s the daughter of Ser Hardyng and Harrold Hardyng’s only surviving sister.”

“Who is Harrold Hardyng?”

“If Robert Arryn should die before producing an heir, Harrold Hardyng inherits the Vale of Arryn. It was a profound gesture that you should name your son Robert to win favour from the East, but it is likely that the sickly boy will die without an heir and the gesture would have been futile. The Hardyng boy will likely inherit, and if we marry his only sister to my Tommen, he will be forced to support us.”

He had to give Cersei credit where credit was due; it was one of her better plots. “And how old is this Harrold boy?”

“Seventeen or eighteen I believe. His sister Cathy is a girl of ten and a ward to Lady Anya Waynwood alongside her brother who has been like a father to her as Lady Anya claims. She has given consent to the marriage.”

“It seems like you have it all under control.”

“I haven’t told father.”

That was what she needed assistance with, and Tyrion sighed and resided himself to the fact that he would not be eating this morning – not with his sister anyway. “Why wouldn’t he agree?”

“Because he loves the idea of marrying Tommen to Elinor.”

“Not as much as he would love the idea of having relations to all four corners of the realm; he’s longed for a marriage to the East since he got here four years ago to ensure their fealty. And if Cathy is as good of a match as you say, then he shouldn’t disagree.”

“But this is father,” Cersei reasoned.

Cersei looked so helpless, like a young girl pining for help, battering her eyelashes and looking so innocent. But Cersei was not innocent and Tyrion should want to cause her harm and pain, but he knew all too well the fear he would feel if Robb or Alayne were to be betrothed to someone he greatly disapproved of.

“I will help you in the future; I will help you out of any marriage father initiates for Robb or Alayne that you don’t approve of. Tyrion, Cathy is a _nice_ girl and sweet and not a Tyrell who would manipulate her way to Tommen. As a parent, I ask you to help me.”

Tyrion had already decided. “I’ll support you if you stick to your promise.”

“I will. Thank you, Tyrion.”

Tyrion took a sausage from the silver platter and took a bite of it.


	14. Honey and Almonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa discovers news about her brother, Tyrion and Sansa's secrets come to air at the new revelation, Myrcella receives advice from her mother and Tyrion and his son are displeased at the latter's betrothal.

Sansa wondered since when was the sum of a girl’s ambition to marry well? Why couldn’t a girl remain unmarried? Why did she have to be forced into betrothal with a stranger? Her father had once told her that a woman’s purpose was to marry, but if a woman marries a man, shouldn’t that be the same for him? Men were given high seats on the small council and Lordships, but when a woman did something good, her father or husband took the credit and her reward was to marry someone of their high Lord’s choosing. It was unfair.

But wasn’t she a hypocrite? She had slandered Arya for not wanting to marry, and she herself had been so keen on wedding a handsome Lord and had already betrothed her eldest son. Was it different now that Alayne was being considered for marriage?

Already her nine month old daughter had been readied for a life of court; Margaery had seen to that. Margaery had been kind enough to have Lyra Mormont brought from the North for one of Alayne’s two companions, the other being Helena Tyrell for would eventually go onto marry Alayne’s eldest brother.

Though Margaery had ensured that the Princesses Alyse and Alysanne had thirty companions between them, all of them were a mixture of western and southern girls, though the southerners outnumbered the westerners. Margaery had told Sansa she wanted her daughters to be around more females and perhaps Alyse would outgrow her ‘difficult stage in life’. But Sansa doubted it; Joffrey’s blood ran too thick through her veins. There was perhaps still time for Alysanne to be saved from inflicting pain, but Alyse was too much her father’s daughter to stop.

Princess Alyse’s favourite companion was Tyran, who was always too busy with Lord Tywin to play with her. She liked Tyran because they would fight together. Often Alyse’s Septa would find them pulling at each other’s limbs, covered in cuts and bruises and take them by the scruff of their necks and return them to their mothers.

“Honestly,” Margaery laughed, pulling Alyse onto her lap. The ladies were sat in the garden, enjoying the last of the summer sun before the snow would arrive from the north and cover the grounds. “The pair of you fighting like that. You’ll have to stop.”

Alyse wrestled away from her mother’s grasp. “Mother, let go of me!”

Margaery did so and Alyse ran to Tyran instantly. “Follow me!”

She grabbed his hand and the two fled the gardens, overtaking Alyse’s Septa who had left the Queen and Sansa and their children at Margaery’s dismissal.

“I’m pleased our children are friends,” Margaery smiled. “Tyran really calms Alyse down.”

“I’m pleased they’re friends too; when Tyran plays with Alyse he’s no longer Lord Tywin’s heir, reciting houses and sigils and families. He’s a little boy.”

Margaery smiled at Sansa, and leaned towards her. “Have you heard the news?” Sansa shook her head. “Now, I don’t know this for certain, but apparently – keep this to yourself – Myrcella is with child.”

Sansa looked at Margaery incredulously. “No... You must be mistaken.”

“I heard Joff telling his mother – whether or not I heard it right I don’t know. The poor girl, but at least she’ll be safer with a babe in her belly.”

Sansa didn’t know if that was true or not. “I heard she never even married the Prince Trystane and it was all lies just to frighten Lady Cersei.”

“There is so much gossip at King’s Landing,” Margaery sighed. “It’s hard to distinguish what’s in front of your eyes without somebody telling you otherwise.” Sansa agreed with her. “I’m sorry, this is rude of me.”

“Rude of you? It’s not rude of you.”

Margaery looked puzzled. “But your brother.”

“My brother?”

Margaery bit her lip. “So you haven’t heard?”

What was the news? Had Bran or Rickon been found safely – it wasn’t certain that they were dead, and Sansa prayed in the sept for their safety. Or was she merely talking about her brother Robb?

“Your brother Jon was attacked a few nights back in Castle Black. Surely someone told you?”

“No.”

Sansa didn’t know how to react. She hadn’t seen Jon in almost five years – perhaps even six, Sansa had lost count. But she still remembered his face and his curly black hair and his laugh. After Robb’s death she had hoped that Jon would save her from King’s Landing, but he never wrote to her. Not once. Not ever, and she had never thought to write to him, either, but now she wished she had.

“He was at the wall,” Margaery informed. “And some of the men attacked him.”

“And is he dead?”

Margaery nodded. “Yes.”

***

Tyrion was sat with Alayne in his solar. His beautiful daughter with her vibrant red hair stood on his lap and bounced on his legs, laughing. It was her second name day in a couple of weeks: just three days after Robb’s. Tyrion hated how quickly these past two years had gone; he didn’t want his daughter to grow up.

“You never told me!”

Sansa had burst into the room, the door swung open, her voice strained. She spun round on Tyrion and glared at him, oblivious to Alayne’s presence almost.

“You didn’t think to tell me Jon was murdered?”

“I was waiting for the right time...”

Sansa snatched Alayne from him and kissed her on her cheek. She crossed the room and placed Alayne on the centre of Sansa and Tyrion’s bed, then returned angrily to Tyrion. The look on her face told Tyrion that she was beyond anger: that she was violently furious with him.

“I was hoping that you didn’t know and that you were as oblivious as me. But I had to hear the news from Margaery. I looked a fool.”

“I knew it would upset you.”

“Upset me!” Sansa reiterated. “He’s my brother, my _last_ brother who I knew was alive. I wanted to see him – you _know_ I wanted to see him. Is that why you stopped me?”

“No,” Tyrion said bluntly, “I stopped you because you’re a seventeen-year-old woman and the Wall is filled with one hundred celibate men who haven’t seen women since they got there and not enough guards could protect you from their desires.”

“And what of your desires to keep me hidden from the truth? I’m not a child, Tyrion, you should have told me.”

“I know I should have told you.”

She crossed her arms. “How long ago was it.”

“Does it matter?”

“How long ago, Tyrion?”

He hesitated. “Three months.”

***

Three months. Her brother had been dead three months and her husband and everybody else had kept it from her. When Robb died Joffrey had told her the moment he saw her in the castle. He had seen her countless times since then: she had dined with him and Margaery only yesterday. Why did he not flaunt it in her face?

“I can’t bear to look at you,” Sansa snapped. “You disgust me. After everything we've been through I would have thought we were close enough to spare one another's feelings to tell each other the truth."

“Oh really?” Tyrion said dryly. His voice began to rise. “At the Eyrie, when were you planning on telling me that Littlefinger kissed you and Lysa tried to push you out the Moon Door?”

 _How did he know that?_ Her heart stopped beating momentarily, as she thought back to that day. That had been almost two years ago, how had he not mentioned it before?

***

“How long did you know?”

“That Littlefinger kissed you or that Lysa Arryn tried to murder you?”

“Both.”

“Lysa told me that he kissed you. Littlefinger told me that she tried to kill you.”

“And why didn’t you do anything?”

“I was going to,” Tyrion began. “I was planning on throwing Littlefinger out of the Moon Door himself because I was so angry, but when he told me that he saved your life, I-”

“-Forgave him?” Sansa prompted dryly.

“Categorically.”

***

Tyrion’s deceit came to her like a blow in the gut. What was it? Revenge because another man had kissed Sansa? He couldn’t want to merely shield her from the truth; he was a Lannister, but despite being far from the worst of the Lannister’s, he still carried their blood and she had learned firsthand of their iniquity.

“He was my brother. Why was he stabbed?”

Tyrion cleared his throat. “Believe me, I had _nothing_ to do with it. Cersei didn’t like that he had power... He could have regained the north if he had enough men and there's talk of your brother Rickon being on the Island of Skagos, but when Joffrey sent men to look for him he wasn't found and the Manderly's swear there is no Rickon Stark living in Skagos. I only found out about this a fortnight ago. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to build up your hopes of seeing your brother again. And with Jon on the wall and Rickon not far from it, it was on Cersei's orders that if Jon showed desire to invade he’d be put to the sword.”

“But Stannis was his ally! Why would he invade Winterfell? His _nephew_ is the heir.”

“The Night’s Watch shouldn’t partake in war, but once Stannis arrived they sided with him and the watch was no longer neutral.”

“You killed him because he wanted to invade Winterfell? He could have killed Stannis – he could have saved your army with a job!”

“Again, _I_ didn’t set the order.”

“No,” Sansa said coolly, “but you didn’t speak up for him, did you?”

Hesitantly: “No.”

***

Tyrion saw the look of disgust on Sansa’s face patently.

“I wish they’d kill you.”

“Sansa.”

It was futile to repeat that it was not he who gave the orders, but it was Tyrion who had sat by as Cersei and his father gave the orders and watched as men were sent to the Wall to carry out the act. He had stayed silent and allowed Jon Snow to be put to death, regardless of what his wife may feel. She had already lost one brother and both parent’s to the Lannister’s. If she did not already have cause to want to kill them, this would prompt her.

“I should never have given you children. I should never have given you leverage over me.”

“Leverage? Did Margaery teach you that word? I see you whispering to her and her whispering back. When did you think to tell me that you had _already_ written to Willas and Jeyne confirming the betrothal. I had to find out from _Joffrey_.”

“I told you! _Jeyne_ told you – Willas told you! You agreed to it!”

“You think I wanted more Tyrell’s at King’s Landing? Sansa, they’re dangerous. I don’t want one married to my son.”

“Then why did you agree?”

“To buy us some time! Sansa, the Tyrell’s are enemies.”

“Enemies? Is that why Margaery is so kind, because she wants to kill us? Is that why Willas graciously accepted us into his home and fawned over our children, buying them presents and giving them sweets?”

“Yes! Sansa, it’s called manipulation.”

“You call the Tyrell’s the enemy, but I don’t recall them killing my family. I remember that it was the Lannister’s. The family I married into.”

“You can argue with me all you want. We both keep secrets from each other and it just so happened that mine was on a larger scale than yours.”

“I’m not angry because you didn’t tell me. I’m angry because you never once spoke up for him, and I’m certain you never halted your precious father into his plans to kill Robb and my mother at The Twins.”

“I didn’t know about it.”

“That’s just your excuse for everything: I didn’t know. People say you’re clever, I say you’re a fake.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Sansa made haste for the door. “Sansa! Where do you think you’re going with this? You can’t run away; you have three children and we have an army who would return you in an instant. Just come back.”

She turned to him just as she reached the door and placed a gentle hand on the brass door knob. “At least with Joffrey,” she began. “He never lied to me.”

***

Tyrion didn’t share Sansa’s bed that night; he went to sleep with Tyran in his bed. Nor did Tyrion break his fast with Sansa, he went to eat with Tommen where the two of them fed a majority of the food to Tommen’s kittens.

“Mother says I’m to marry soon,” Tommen informed Tyrion.

“Not for a few months yet,” Tyrion explained. “Once Cathy is a little bit older, then you can marry her. Do you like her?”

The young Prince nodded. “Yes.”

“Does she like your kittens?”

“She named this one: Elys after her Grandfather.”

She had chosen the largest of all the kittens who were chewing the sausages Tommen and Tyrion had fed them, crouched in the corner. There were eight kittens and four older cats. He had more cats than there were Kingdoms in Westeros.

“He’s very lovely.”

“Why didn’t I marry sooner? I’m fourteen and Joff married Margaery when he was thirteen.”

“Because there’s nobody good enough for you.”

Tommen studied his little Uncle. “I know you’re lying. It’s because mother doesn’t want me to leave. Is it true that Myrcella’s pregnant?”

“Who tells you these lies?”

“So she isn’t?”

Uncertain: “No.”

“You’re lying.”

“If I told you the truth then you’d be upset.”

 _Why does everyone get upset when I shield them from the truth? The truth is a nasty thing where as lies can be sweet and tampered with._ Tyrion ruffled Tommen’s hair and stood up.

“One of these days, you’ll learn what has happened, but you’re too young to understand.”

***

Cersei had written a letter to Myrcella when she discovered that she had wed to Trystane. The letter had not reached Myrcella until two weeks after she was married, and it was delivered to her as she broke her fast with her husband and Doran Martell. She scanned it quickly and then crossed the room and threw it in the fire like her mother had informed her.

“Is everything alright?” Trystane asked his wife.

Myrcella sat back at the table and pushed her food away. “Of course.”

She had hardly read any of it and her mother had kept it short and sweet. Cersei had told her daughter that Dorne were a threat. That they could not be trusted. That she would try her hardest to get out of there but more importantly, to do everything in her power to avoid having a baby with Trystane because it would tie her to Dorne for the rest of her life and she would feel guilt and sorrow for leaving it. Myrcella knew she could not ask for Moon Tea to be taken but her mother had told her not to anyway, but she did suggest, quite drastically, that she starve herself to avoid her moon blood and therefore, unable to conceive.

It had frightened Myrcella what her mother included else in the letter about Dorne which gave her the motivation to not allow Trystane – as much as she liked him – to put a child inside her.

***

Tywin came to see Tyrion in his solar. His father rarely paid Tyrion a visit, it was usually to see Tyran if he ever entered Tyrion and Sansa’s quarters, so the visit was a surprise to Tyrion and he set aside his ink and quill and invited his father to take the seat opposite him. He declined but Tyrion poured him a cup of wine.

“I hear you and Sansa are currently in an argument.”

Tyrion passed Tywin the wine. “Who told you?”

“Alayne did when she ran crying to me in my room. She demanded to know what had happened. She thought somebody had died.”

“Well she was right; Sansa’s furious that we killed yet another one of her brothers.”

“The bastard?” Tyrion nodded. “It had to be done.”

“She’s angry that I didn’t speak up for him.”

“And why should you have done?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I don’t know but she’s angry. Why _did_ you kill him? Stannis sits at Winterfell and has murdered the Bolton’s – it would have saved us the job if you let the men of the Night’s Watch stick a spear through him instead of us.”

“Stannis Baratheon has thirty thousand men at his command and the Night’s Watch has just over one hundred. The wall cannot be guarded by ghosts otherwise the Wildlings would breach it. What I did I did for the realm.”

“Since when were the Bolton’s defeated?”

“It happened when you were in the Eyrie – a very messy business.”

“That was two years ago. And you never thought to tell me?”

“Well I thought you knew.”

“Clearly I didn’t; Queen Margaery told me. So Stannis sits at Winterfell: the castle that my son is heir to so where does that leave Robb?”

“Stannis will be dead by the time Robb becomes a man grown in thirteen years and by then, if Stannis has not been driven out, he will have his own men and army to command to retake Winterfell.”

“And what are you doing to claim Winterfell?”

“Nothing as of yet. More long as the Frey’s sit at The Twins with their army and reinforcements from the Riverlands, Stannis Baratheon poses less of a threat than when he did at the Wall or Dragonstone.”

“And where will my son get these men from?” Tyrion wondered. “All the Northerners are dead and their armies destroyed.”

“Second or third or fourth sons of high families will compete to make those sons Lord’s to various castles up North and take a host of men with them to create new Lord’s of the North with Robb Lannister as their command.”

“Robb Lannister: Lord of Winterfell.”

“He has Stark blood.”

“But the name is what matters.”

“You’re right; the name matters. You ought to consider more betrothals for that boy; he may only be three, but it is important that they-”

“-Well Sansa’s confirmed with the Tyrell’s that Tyran will marry Helena to which I had minimal say in so I am sure if you are that interested in finding a wife for my infant son, you can discuss it with Sansa.”

“I shall, and you should know that Helena Tyrell and Tyran are a suitable match.”

“I am sure it will be your greatest achievement in life.”

Tywin placed the cup of wine on Tyrion’s desk that he had not drunk. “Are you interested at all in your children?”

“Of course I am,” Tyrion said adamantly, “I love them very much.”

“Then why was it that I taught both your son’s to read and to write?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Because you’re better at it than me.”

***

Tyran took his usual lessons with Tywin every day.

At dawn, Tyran would wake up and his squire would dress him. He would then be taken to his mother and father where he would break his fast with them and his brother and sister. After, he might go for a walk in the garden or play with his friends. Then he would have luncheon with someone in the family – on that day particular day it had been the King, Queen and their children – and then go to lessons with his Grandfather.

One day, he arrived later than usual.

“And where have you been?” Tywin asked.

Tyran panted, running to his Grandfather. “I-I was chasing Alyse! Sorry Grandfather.”

“Sit,” Tywin ordered and his Grandson pulled himself into the chair beside him against the table. “Did you learn the houses like I asked you?”

Tyran blinked at him. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I forgot.”

“Tyran-”

“-But Alyse wanted me to play with her.”

Tywin shook his head, and he tapped on the map. It was spread out in front of them and covered half of the table. Tyran climbed on the chair and searched for where Tywin has pointed.

“That’s Winterfell.”

“And who are the Lord’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.”

“Robb.”

“He will be. But who is at Winterfell now?”

“Stanley.”

“ _Stannis_ ,” Tywin corrected. “And who is Stannis?”

“He is the King Joffrey's Uncle.”

Tywin nodded. “And here?”

The golden haired boy’s face lit up. “Casterly Rock!”

“And the Lord?”

“You.”

“And our words?”

“Hear me roar.”

“Excellent. And here?”

“This is Highpalace – _Highgarden._ Sorry Grandfather.”

“The Lord?”

“Mace Tyrell – Margaery’s father.”

“And their words?”

Tyran paused and looked uncertainly at his Grandfather. “Getting strong?”

“ _Growing_ strong.”

“Sorry Grandfather.”

“What is their sigil?”

“Oh, a flower.”

“ _Which_ flower?”

“A rose. Alyse wears them on her dresses.”

“So does Helena: your future wife.”

Tyran frowned. “Do I have to marry her? She’s a baby.”

“Yes. Now this.”

“I don’t want to marry her, Grandfather,” Tyran whispered.

It was his first act of defiance. Tywin had taught Tyran to do as commanded but to command as he did. Tywin put a hand on Tyran’s shoulder. “Sometimes, we do things that we don’t always want to do, but will be good in the future, like you marrying Helena. It will make everybody happy if you do.”

“Yes Grandfather.”

***

Tyrion wanted to speak to his wife. It had been two days but she still left the room whenever he entered one. He had tried talking to her, but eventually gave up and resided to sleeping with his children before Sansa welcomed him back in her bed.

Tyrion saw how he was in the wrong, but it was also wrong of Sansa not to tell him about Littlefinger and her Aunt Lysa or even tell him that she had confirmed another betrothal between Helena Tyrell and Tyran. It was obvious that Tyran was unhappy about the situation; he had told Tywin so himself.

Even on Alayne’s birthday, Sansa was cold to him. Sansa presented Alayne with a pony and Tyrion presented her with the saddle and bridle and riding gowns. As Sansa and Tyrion, Robb, Tyran and Alayne rode out together, he tried talking to her.

“You can’t ignore me forever.”

She didn’t reply instantly. “Don’t look away from Alayne; she could fall.”

“The master of stables is training her.”

“Tyran or Robb could fall.”

“Tyran rides horses almost every day but Robb is still a better rider than him. I don’t fear that my son’s are going to fall off horses that stand no taller than you.”

“I would be more reassured if they stood no taller than you. Do you know what they did with Jon’s body after they murdered him?”

“They burned it.”

***

It was a better fate than what Robb’s corpse received; they had mutilated his body by sewing Grey Wind’s head onto it, and they had slit her mother’s throat and thrown that in the river: a mock of the Tully’s claim that they drew their strength from the river. If given the chance, Sansa would throw ever last Frey’s body in the river and cut all their throats to make them pay for what they did to her family, and the Lannister’s too if she had the army.

“Why did they burn it?” Sansa asked.

“To stop him from coming back, I suppose.”

“Coming back?”

“An an Other.”

“The Others are gone. Everybody knows that.” Tyrion didn’t reply. “Is there any news of Arya then. If there is then you should tell me.”

“There is none,” Tyrion claimed. “I swear to you.”

“Is she dead?”

“It’s more than likely.”

“And Bran?"

“Theon Greyjoy burned his body.”

The Stark’s had accepted Theon Greyjoy into their home and allowed him to eat with them at their table. Lady Catelyn had shown more affection to Theon than she ever had to Jon, and he went and turned on them when they needed him. It was disgusting.

“And he?”

“Alive at the Iron Islands. The Greyjoy’s would be stupid to attack with Stannis at Winterfell and an army a Casterly Rock.”

“My Uncle’s at Casterly Rock.”

Tyrion nodded. “Yes. I should have told you that too, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “You should have. Are we ever going to be allowed to go to Winterfell or Casterly Rock? Stannis is at Winterfell, so I see why we can’t go, but my Uncle has lost the Riverlands and has no army. Would it be that dreadful to visit?”

“No, but my father would think so.”

“You do everything that your father tells you, don’t you? What is it that makes you fear him? All you ever do is make jokes about him and hate him, but to his face you follow his orders and bow and scrape at his will.”

“I don’t fear him as much, I fear what he can do.”

Sansa pulled up her reigns. “When he dies, Tyran will replace him and no one can stop us from going anywhere.”

“The King can.”

“Lord Tywin is the most powerful man in Westeros. When he dies, Tyran will inherit that title and Joffrey wouldn’t stop us from doing anything if it meant we can withdraw the army.”

***

Spoken like a true Lannister, Tyrion noted. She had strategy now and brains: something that her brother had lacked when it came to warfare. She understood this game of thrones better than most men; she killed men with kindness and grace while they battled with steel and armour.

And he respected her immensely for it.

***

Princess Alyse and Tyran ran around the castle with each other. Tyran was supposed to be in lessons with his Grandfather, but the Princess had caught him and pulled him away from his route, running away from the guards, climbing up steep stairs until they came to the top of a tower neither of them knew the name of. They sat at the top of the stairs out of breath and giggling.

“Grandfather’s going to kill me,” Tyran whispered through panted breath. “And so will your father.”

“Be quite; someone might hear us!”

They were silent for a few seconds before Princess Alyse started laughing again. “Do you think we lost the guards?”

Tyran peered round the corner. There were no guards in sight and no noise but his relative’s breathing and giggles. She pulled him back and pressed him against the wall.

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

“Father kisses mother and they fight too in their bed. Can we fight?”

“We do fight.”

“Do your mother and father fight in bed?”

Tyran shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well can I kiss you?”

Kissing was a strange concept to Tyran, but he knew vaguely what it was: the joining of two lips. He too had seen his parent’s kiss, but he had never seen them fighting in bed like Alyse had. Tyran knew little of what kissing involved: the romantic and sentimental nature of it, so nodded his head and allowed the Princess to kiss him.

She tasted of honey and almonds and Tyran had always liked honey and almonds.

“I like that.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Why? Don’t you like it?”

“I do,” Tyran said, “but we shouldn’t.”

She kissed him again and giggled. “I'm a Princess. I can do what I want."


	15. Protégé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin makes plans for Tyran and Joffrey rides north to deal with Stannis.

“Tyran! Tyran!”

Princess Alyse paced the corridor when she saw Tyran Lannister from across it with Lord Tywin. Tywin nodded his head at the Princess.

“Your Grace.”

“Grandfather,” Alyse returned. “Tyran, will you play with me? Alysanne’s playing with Alayne and I’m bored.” She took his hand. “Play with me.”

“I’m busy, Alyse,” Tyran apologised. “Grandfather’s taking me to the dungeons.”

“Well I’ll come too,” Alyse stated.

“I’ll play with you tomorrow,” Tyran said, “bye Alyse.”

Tywin put a hand on his Grandson’s shoulder and steered him away from the Princess who remained standing and watched as they left.

“Tyran, do you play with the Princess often?”

“Yes Grandfather.”

“And what do you do?”

 _Kiss her._ They did that a lot. “Play, Grandfather.”

“You wouldn’t do anything badly behaved, would you?”

“No Grandfather.”

Tywin judged him, and then left the conversation there.

***

Tyrion knew his son kissed the little Princess; he had seen them in Tyran’s chambers but had pretended not to. Tyrion wondered for a long time if he should say anything; tell Tyran that it was wrong to kiss the Princess and he should be kissing his betrothed if he wanted to kiss anyone. But he was only a little boy, there was no harm in what he was doing.

He told Bronn though, admittedly, Tyrion had been drunk at the time.

“Children kiss each other. It’s exploration.”

“Not with their cousins they shouldn’t. They aren’t cousins though; Princess Alyse is your... _great niece?_ So what does that make her to Tyran – his second cousin? Your father married his own cousin and your sister fucked her brother. It’s inevitable that somewhere down the Lannister line they’d be more fucking within it.”

“Thank you,” Tyrion said derisively. “That’s reassuring.”

“You worry too much. In a few weeks they’ll stop and you’ll tease him about it on his wedding day.”

Tyrion hoped so.

***

Sansa gazed longingly out of her window. Alayne sat on Sansa’s lap as her mother brushed out her auburn curls. Both mother and daughter sat on the balcony, the winter breeze blowing in their faces. They had been warned that winter was coming for five years, but even still there was little evidence that winter truly was upon them.

Sansa sought to return to Winterfell: to sleep in her old bed and dance in the hall and walk the corridors of the icy castle. When Sansa was at Winterfell she longed to be free and go to the capitol, now that she was in the capitol and had been for seven years, she desired to be anywhere else but there, but in those seven years she had only ever left twice: once for Highgarden and the other the Eyrie. The prospect of both visits had been exhilarating, but nothing compared to how Sansa wanted to feel when she would return to Winterfell.

The Lannister’s were marching north; Sansa had seen them a few days ago in the yard, saddled up and ready to fight Stannis’ army and reclaim Winterfell for her. Fifty thousand men were riding North, leaving only five thousand in King’s Landing. Sansa tried not to think how many men would not return home.

Joffrey rode North to his Grandfather’s orders and lead the front of the procession. His children and the rest of his family remained at the Red Keep and went to see him off. Sansa went to the Sept the following day and prayed that Joffrey would be slain in the most humiliating way and Lucian would become King. The boy was three and already there were prospects that he would be a much better King and a better person that his father. Margaery had seen to that.

The atmosphere changed when Joffrey was gone. Tywin ruled in his stead with his Queen who had not allowed Alyse or Alysanne to sit in with her at court, but allowed Lucian to. She would whisper in his ear, Sansa noticed. Joffrey would soon come to regret leaving King’s Landing to go North. When he left Lucian was his to train and manipulate into becoming a ruthless King like himself, but when he returned, Margaery and Tywin would have taught to make him a better King as Tywin had taught Tyran to become a good Lord.

He still taught him his lessons everyday and he favoured Tyran over Robb and Prince Lucian. Tywin had never personally taught the little Prince anything as initially agreed, and once Robb had learned to read and write he was given to his Maester to be taught. Tyran was Tywin’s last chance of another son.

“Grandfather, will I go to Casterly Rock?”

“Of course. I will take you there myself.”

“What about mother and father?”

“They have to look after your brother and sister. Would you like to go to Casterly Rock?”

“Yes Grandfather. When will we go?”

“When the King is back with my army. I shall take you myself.”

“Why won’t mother and father take me to Casterly Rock?”

Tywin placed a hand on his Grandson’s golden hair and gave him a rare smile. Tywin seldom smiled but when his daughter had been at a similar age to Tyran before Joanna had died, he used to give her secret smiles.

“Because they don’t love you as much as I do.”

“Mother loves Alayne more than me.”

“I know.”

“And father... Why is he so little?”

“Because he’s a monster.”

“A monster?”

Tywin nodded and he removed his hand from his Grandson. “Only keep that a secret between you and me; we do not want him to hurt you, do we? Monsters attack little boys who share secrets.”

He had scared Tyran. That had been his intention to play Tyran against his parents and have him favour Tywin all along. It was Tywin’s plan to make Tyran King however he might do it.

When Lucian had been born Tywin was disappointed; he wanted Tyran to marry the Princess Alyse so the Lannister’s would sit the throne and the Baratheon’s no more. Tywin probably didn’t have much longer to live and it would be his greatest legacy if his Grandson took the throne and played the game better than anyone.

“Grandfather, can I have my own ship?”

“Absolutely,” Tywin replied. “I’ll buy you one for your sixth name day. All the best boats have names. What shall you call her?”

Tyran answered immediately. “Alyse.”

“Alyse?”

Tyran nodded. “For the Princess.”

 _For the Princess_ , echoed in Tywin’s mind. Perhaps there still was a chance to put Tyran on the throne; the Prince Lucian was a sickly boy and had been since birth. The Maesters said he wouldn’t live to see his first name day and the Queen would not risk anymore children. The Prince had surprised them all and had not died like his brother. He was not healthy or strong but he was not dying either. If he did, Tyran would know for certain how to make his final legacy complete.

***

The King missed his son’s fourth name day because of his attack on Winterfell. Because of this, there had been no expensive tourney, merely a feast for the family. Family gatherings were always better when Joffrey was not present; the mood was lighter and everybody else was happier.

The Prince and Tyran Lannister had name days weeks apart, and Tywin presented both of them with their own ship. Tyran named his Alyse as he had told his Grandfather while Lucian named his Margaery after his mother. Alyse and Margaery were tied to the docks and the two boys played on them for days, pretending to go to battle with each other.

“CASTERLY ROCK!” Tyran would shout from the front of the ship, clinging onto the wooden wheel and twisting it though it would not move.

“THE KING!”

“WINTERFELL!”

“ME!”

The boys could not be taken away from their ships until Joffrey demanded that they be brought to The Twins for them to use in battle against Stannis Baratheon. Both boys had been in tears when their mothers had told them what happened. In condolence, Tywin had brought Tyran a horse and given the Prince a model of his ship.

The love Tywin had for his Grandson was not missed by anyone. It was because of this that Tyrion tried to prevent Tyran and Tywin from spending any unnecessary time together and Tyrion kept his son close to him during the feast. Tyrion did not regard the way Tywin treated his son. It was not jealous but fear of what Tywin would manipulate his son into doing. Tyrion had seen his father do that all too often.

Tywin told Tyrion he was taking Tyran to Casterly Rock when the armies returned at that feast.

“Over my dead body,” Tyrion claimed. “You are not taking my son away from me. You’re not taking him away from his mother.”

“Arrangements have already been put in place.”

“I am his father. If you take Tyran you take me too; how will I know you will return him safely? What if you keep him at Casterly Rock?”

“We are sailing to Casterly Rock. It is important that a Lord knows his lands.”

“Then are you planning to take Robb to Winterfell?”

“He shall go to Winterfell once the King has taken it from Stannis. From then you are free to take him to Winterfell as and when you desire. In the meantime, Tyran and I will ride to Casterly Rock. It will take us four months to ride West, weather permitting and four months to ride back. We shall stay four months making it a year.”

“A _year_. You will not take my son away from me for a _year_.”

“You took my Grandchildren away from me when you visited Highgarden and The Vale. How did I know that my kin were safe? Because I trusted you. Now trust me that I will return your son safely after our visit.”

“You won’t take him.”

“I can and I will. You ought to accept that your son is not yours to command; he is my heir and I will train him to make a good Warden of the West.”

“Let Sansa and I, Robb and Alayne visit with you then.”

“You will only delay our journey,” Tywin dismissed. “I am taking Tyran to Casterly Rock a fortnight after the men have returned from war and you can either bid farewell to him and wish him a safe travel or you can remain bitter about it for the year. In my absence I will name you Hand of the King.”

“This only makes me less inclined to the idea of you taking my son away from me. Why would I want to be acting Hand of the King?”

“Because then you can name a Lord of your choosing to watch over Winterfell in your absence. I trust you have a few in mind. Just make sure you choose one who will not run it into ruin like the last two.”

Tyrion glared at his father. “If you take Tyran to Casterly Rock I want you to write to me every week assuring us that he is well and safe. At the first sight of danger return him to us-”

“I was not asking for your consent: merely warning you of my actions. And I _will_ be taking Tyran to Casterly Rock, and you can tell your wife that too.”

Tywin drained the last of his wine and slammed the cup on the table. Tentatively, Sansa approached Tyrion and asked what Tywin wanted.

“He plans to take Tyran to Casterly Rock when the army has returned.”

“You haven’t let him, have you?”

“He’s naming me acting hand in his stead and he’s adamant that he’ll be taking Tyran to the Rock once our men have returned. As always he’s not giving me much of a choice.”

“How long will they be gone?”

Tyrion flinched. “A year. He’s leaving Robb and Alayne at the Red Keep. He wishes to teach Tyran how to be a good Lord in the west; he claims a good Lord should know his lands," Tyrion couldn't help but say all this derisively. "But he _has_ agreed that once Stannis is defeated at Winterfell, that we will be free to visit.” His wife’s blue eyes flickered with desire. If the price was losing her son for a year in return for Winterfell, would she take it? “He won’t let harm come to Tyran; he’s a Lannister and a Lannister he actually tolerates.” Tyrion wondered if Tywin truly did love his Grandson and it wasn’t just for the legacy.

“If Lord Tywin can take Tyran to Casterly Rock for a year, then we take him, Robb and Alayne to Winterfell for _two_ years. It’s like he said: a Lord has to know his lands.”

Tyrion grinned. "I'm sure I will force him to agree with that."


	16. Courtesies and Kittens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey returns from Winterfell and Tommen weds a girl from the Vale

The King was victorious and his men had slain Stannis Baratheon at Winterfell in a siege that lasted the month. Stannis was murdered, his wife was murdered and so was his daughter and the Red Witch he adored so much, only when they went to burn the bodies, hers was not recovered. Joffrey kept the heads of Stannis, Selyse and Shireen and presented them to the members of his household whom greeted him at the Kingsroad.

“The traitor gave up eventually,” Joffrey snarled. “It was only time.”

The King had been gone for fifteen months and had been missed by no one. The men at his command had been missed; they had been vulnerable to attack in those past months, but now they had returned and only five thousand men had died. They had regained those men by instructing seven thousand troops from the Eyrie to defend their King. Now they were two thousand stronger than they had been before and Winterfell was in allies hands: Queen Margaery’s brother Garlan was protecting it until Robb came of age.

“My love, I am so pleased you have returned to me,” Margaery approached her husband as he dismounted his mare and she kissed him on both cheeks. “I heard such tales of your gallantry; how you lead the men to breech Stannis’ brigade.”

“I did it for you, my Queen.”

It hadn’t been Joffrey who lead the men through the brigade, but an unknown soldier whom Joffrey had given the command to; the King was too cowardice to do it himself.

“Come! Inside! Lucian has got you a present!”

They all trailed in after the King and Queen. Margaery had Joffrey round her arm and the King had not gone to greet his mother yet, which went did not go unnoticed by Cersei.

“What is it?” Joffrey asked. “Did you hunt your first animal? Did you bring me home a boar?”

“No father,” Lucian said meekly, “I-I baked you a pie.”

Joffrey stopped in his tracks and stared at his son. “ _Girls_ bake pies. Alyse caught me her first deer when she was five. How old are you?”

“Six.”

“Six and you have not caught me any beast.”

“Joffrey,” his mother soothed. She released him of her grasp and pulled him to her. “It is a very delicious pie; Lucian spent all day baking it.”

“ _Women_ bake pies. I was going to show you as I had my men mount Stannis’ head on a spike, but I won’t take you.”

“I’ll go, father,” Alyse stepped to her father’s side in one graceful movement, and she beamed at her father. “I want to see the traitor’s head.”

“And you shall,” he kissed his daughter on the top of her golden hair. “Come, Alyse: be the one child that has not disappointed me.”

He glared at his son who started to tremble. Margaery dropped to her knees and gave her son a handkerchief and wiped his nose and eye. “Hush, don’t cry my sweetling, don’t cry.”

“He hates me.”

“Your father loves you,” Cersei agreed. “He’s just tired from his ride.”

“You’re lying. He hates me and he loves Alyse. Just leave me alone!”

Lucian ran from his mother and Grandmother. Margaery shouted out after him and made a pursuit to run but Cersei grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Sometimes it is better to leave them on their own. Joff will regret what he has done and return to your son and comfort him and thank him for the pie and Lucian will forget his sadness.”

“But he made him cry.”

“Joff will make him cry again sometime and more times after that. Our precious, sweet Lucian will never be good enough in his father’s eyes and he will soon come to learn this. As shall you.”

***

Tywin had planned to leave the capitol a fortnight after Joffrey had returned with his men, but the King refused his leave until after Tommen’s wedding.

Tyrion greeted the little Prince at his breakfast, though he was no longer little. He was sixteen-years-old and a shock to Tyrion that Cersei had let him remain unwed for so long. Joffrey had been married at thirteen and Myrcella at a similar age. The former Queen Regent had denied any betrothals to her youngest son except the one to the Hardyng girl whom Tommen was to marry that day.

They gathered in the Main Hall. It was a much smaller celebration than Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding had been which made it cheaper for the crown and in Tyrion’s opinion, much more modest.

Tommen stood as tall as his brother Joffrey but a little plumper. His new bride was shorter than him slightly but much slimmer. She sat beside him at the breakfast, feeding her betrothed cakes from her fingers and she’d smile and kiss the honey from around his mouth and they’d both giggle.

Cersei presented Tommen with the cloak he would later wrap Cathy in before anyone else presented them with a gift. The cloak was large and crimson with Lannister lions. Tommen would have chosen the Lannister cloak even if the Baratheon one had been presented for him, alongside it; it was a gesture to his mother, and he kissed her on both cheeks when he gave it to her.

“I love you, mother.”

Cersei leant a hand against Tommen’s cheek, and she kissed his temple. Cathy then embraced her, thanking her for the cloak. It had not been expected of her, but the girl was kind enough to do it regardless.

“You be kind to him,” Cersei sounded close to tears. “Or I’ll push you from a tower.”

“I would never harm my dear Tommen,” young Cathy linked an arm through the Prince. “Lady Cersei, you have my word on that.”

She meant those words more than Margaery ever did and Cersei believed her, she too planting a kiss on her future daughter’s cheek as she had done with her son.

***

Many gifts were presented to Tommen and Cathy. While Cersei presented them with the Lannister cloak, she also gave Cathy a golden necklace from the mines of the West with rubies encrusted. It was a necklace found in the Doom of Valyria. Lord Tywin presented his Grandson with a new silver crown. Cathy’s brother Harrold gave them both a horse: a black and a white one to which Cathy flung her arms around her brother’s neck. Tyrion and Sansa and their children gave the them three kittens, to which Tommen laughed.

“Thank you, Uncle, Aunt Sansa. I shall name them Tyran, Robb and Alayne as a way of my thanks.”

Joffrey’s gift to his little brother, however, stunned them all.

“With our traitor Uncle Stannis dead, we need a new Lord of Storm’s End. Brother, I wish to give you that title and honour if you would accept it. Consider it a home for you and your new wife.”

It was one of Joffrey’s better ideas. Nobody had thought to make Tommen Lord of Storm’s End, though it was an obvious choice. “Thank you, Joff. It is nice of you to give me our father’s seat.”

Joffrey risked a glance to Cersei. “Yes... Well... I am sure our _father_ would want you to have it.”

Joffrey’s Queen kissed both Tommen and Cathy and announced that their own boat would be given to them as their wedding present to sail them down to Storm’s End after their wedding. Tommen named the boat _Ser Jaime._

***

Tommen stood at the front of the sept with Joffrey and his mother by his side, dressed in royal robes of red and gold and green and his golden hair tumbled in curls.

With her older brother Harrold Hardyng on her arm, Cathy was lead through the sea of people adorned in a dark sapphire gown studded with gems and pearls like her brother who wore the Vale of Arryn colours with pride. The soon-to-be bride beamed for everyone and smiled especially for Tommen.

Cersei watched the ceremony take place. Her plump little Prince muddled his vows up, causing the audience to laugh while his wife smiled graciously and kissed him on the cheek. Cathy was a lovely girl – a kinder and sweeter girl with better intentions than Margaery – and a girl Cersei wouldn’t mind to become her new daughter.

When Tommen kissed Cathy, Cersei felt her world collapse outside of her. Both of her sons belonged to other people now and she had no control over them. Tommen was sixteen, a man grown, and Joffrey was the King. They would both leave her and Cersei would be left with no one. Joffrey had given her three Grandchildren, but soon Cersei would be sent back to Casterly Rock; she was no longer Queen and she refused and murdered any betrothals. She only wanted Jaime but Jaime had abandoned her.

***

Sansa enjoyed Tommen’s wedding more than she had his brother’s and her own. Tommen and Cathy danced together for the whole evening, pausing only for food and drink. It was obvious that Tommen and Cathy were in love: true love and not love that resulted because of a forced marriage. Sansa wondered if Tyrion would ever look at her the way Tommen looked at Cathy.

***

The new Princess was not very beautiful, Tyrion mused, but there was an elegance about her that made her very pleasing to the eye. She was witty and clever, funny and stubborn and could out drink many men who attended her wedding. She liked to hunt and ride and sew and sing. Perhaps that was her true beauty.

Tyrion glanced at Sansa who sat by his side smiling and swaying to the music.

“Would you like to dance?”

Sansa glanced around. “Yes.”

That was a surprise. “You would?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I thought you would be ashamed.”

“Tyrion, we’ll be married seven years in three months. All my shame and embarrassment died within the first year. I’ll dance with you if you promise not to tread on my foot.”

***

She was aware of the staring.

She was aware of the sniggers.

She was aware of the taunts.

But what had she to be embarrassed about? She had married Tyrion Lannister and everybody knew about it. They were not doing anything wrong, merely dancing at their Nephew’s wedding. They could laugh if they wanted but Sansa was not ashamed; she had given the dwarf three children whom she loved indefinitely. All her shame had died long ago.

***

His Grandfather had instructed Tyran to ask his betrothed, Lady Helena to dance, which Tyran accepted.

He dismounted his stool and made his way to where Helena was eating her dinner when he stopped and went towards the royal table. He clambered back up the platform and stopped before Alyse who was talking to her mother and sister.

“Alyse, do you want to dance with me?”

Princess Alyse scowled at the young boy. “Tyran, you have to ask my father’s permission to ask me to dance.” The King was talking to Lady Cersei so Tyran didn’t wish to. “I taught you this when we played come into my castle.”

“You can dance with Tyran if you want,” Margaery smiled. “I give my consent.”

“Tyran’s never going to learn manners if he doesn’t play by the rules. I will only dance with you if you ask my father’s permission.”

“Alyse, stop teasing him,” scolded Princess Alysanne.

Princess Alysanne was Alyse’s junior by one year and the two looked incredibly similar: the same curly golden hair and brown eyes. Alysanne was shier than Alyse and less of a favourite with their father.

Tyran was shy by nature which made him reluctant to ask the King – whom he seldom conversed with – if he could dance with his daughter.

But Tyran waited until King Joffrey had finished talking to his mother bitterly, Alyse watching on amused. He approached the King, well aware that his parent’s were watching him cautiously, took a deep breath and addressed the King.

“Your Grace.”

Joffrey turned around to see who had spoken to him this time and looked surprised to see his cousin. “Cousin Tyran.”

“Your Grace, may I dance with your daughter?”

Alyse and Alysanne began to giggle into their napkins while Joffrey looked over to his wife, then back at Tyran.

“Yes.”

Alyse jumped off her chair and took Tyran’s hand. She lead him down to where everybody else was dancing and whispered into his ear.

“I love this song.”

To which Tyran replied. “I love you,” and the Princess graciously kissed him on his cheek.

 


	17. Her Vendetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Keep learn of a new invader and Tywin and Tyran ride west.

Tywin had waited one moon before assembling his men to ride to Casterly Rock. They were to be a host of five hundred, the ride long and tiring as Sansa and Tyrion repeatedly told their oldest son in an attempt to persuade him to change his mind about going to the Rock, but Tyran was so intent and excited about going to Casterly Rock that he eventually shouted at his parents.

“STOP IT! I WANT TO GO TO CASTERLY ROCK! I KNOW IT WILL BE LONG AND HOT AND BORING BUT I WANT TO GO!”

“Don’t talk to us like that,” Tyrion reprehended. “Or we won’t let you go.”

Sansa and Tyrion never disciplined their children; they didn’t have the instinct to do so. Tywin disciplined their children enough for them, returning Robb and Alayne to them occasionally in tears after being sanctioned by their Grandfather for petty things Tywin thought they had done wrong by when they were actually not uncommon for children to do: get stuck in trees, jump into lakes, swim deep into the sea.

Tyrion was shook awake by his squire Podrick Payne one morning, whispering in his Lord’s ear that an emergency small council meeting had been called. Tyrion was changed out of his nightclothes and escorted to the Hand of the King’s chambers. The small council was all in attendance, silent and waiting for him.

“What is it?” Tyrion asked upon entering the room. "Who's died now?"

“Daenerys Targaryen is in Dorne,” Tywin announced. His voice was strained. He sounded anxious, which of course he had good reason to be. “The girl has three grown dragons and the support of a majority of the cities east of us and their armies including seven Dothraki hordes and hundreds of ships."

“I knew Robert should have had her killed when she was still a child,” Cersei snapped. “And has Dorne risen in alliance with the bitch?”

“They have, yes-”

“-And Myrcella?”

“We have had no news, and it likely that we will not.”

Cersei threw herself from the chair, slamming the palms of her hands onto the chestnut table. She leaned towards their father, low and menacing. “You march our men down to Dorne and retrieve my daughter immediately.”

“How when my men are to ride west with me in a few weeks?”

“You aren’t still going, are you?”

“The Targaryen girl will not march on us until all of her army are with her. She still has two hundred sailing ships. She sails from Pentos and the voyage takes a moon each time. It would take her almost a year to sail all her army.”

“You cannot leave,” King Joffrey snapped. “You are my hand.”

“Tyrion is ruling as hand now, and this is his responsibility until I leave.”

It was not surprising that Tywin would run at the first sight of danger, but at least he would take Tyran with him too this time. If he was to hide under Casterly Rock during another war, Tyrion was grateful at least one of his children would be safe with him.

“I _forbid_ you to leave. I want Myrcella retrieved from Dorne immediately; they will have too much over us if Myrcella remains there.”

 _The boy gets wiser,_ Tyrion noted. First he named Tommen as Lord of the Storm Lands and now he wishes to retrieve Myrcella from Dorne. It must be his wife’s ideas; Joffrey didn’t have a strategic bone in his body though he might have one in the form of his young Queen's cunt.

***

If the Targaryen girl truly was at Dorne, everybody who lived in the Red Keep would be murdered: himself, his father, his sister, his wife and his children. His children would be put to the knife because they were Lannister's. Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon had suffered the same fatality too, Tyrion was an imbecile if he thought Daenerys Targaryen would spare their innocent lives.

They would not withstand her attack and they would likely not survive the siege. They could run and surrender the throne, but how far would they get without men murdering them on her command or selling them to her for a bag of gold?

His father was nonchalant about the threat. He made no attempt to battle against her. It was not surprising though; reportedly her army outnumbered them almost triple and Lord Tywin still planned to take Tyran and five hundred men west. If Daenerys attacked whilst Tywin was at Casterly Rock, they would have no chance of surviving.

***

Their men at Dorne had sent no word to the Red Keep. Cersei feared for Myrcella’s life and Tommen was prohibited of going to Storm’s End while the war was still a threat. So he and Cathy had to remain in the Red Keep until instructed otherwise. They were all in danger. Sansa had heard rumours they would all sail to Sothoryos, while she heard other reports that the children would live at Pentos and the adults remain at the Red Keep and endure the seize.

When Sansa asked Margaery about it, the Queen replied, “whatever Joffrey and Lord Tywin decide will be for the best and put our children first.”

'Our children' were hers and Joffrey’s children. Sansa loved Margaery as a sister and as a friend but she would not put her children’s lives in her hands. Margaery had little control over her own as it was. Sansa would not entrust hers with her.

“Will Lord Tywin still go to Casterly Rock?”

“Probably,” Sansa admitted.

Margaery and Sansa walked with their middle children along the coast of Blackwater Bay as the two children frolicked in the water, splashing each other. Sansa enjoyed the feeling of the sand between her toes and the waves lapping against her feet. There was a slight breeze in the air and the summer sun had long gone and dark clouds replaced it. Winter truly was coming. They would want to move south when it did.

“What do you think of the situation we’re in with the Targaryen’s?”

“She wants revenge for her family. That’s understandable.”

Margaery turned to Sansa. “And you. Do you want revenge for _your_ family?”

Yes. Of course she did. She wanted to slit Walder Frey’s throat and parade his head around on a spike like he did to Robb before he did of crippling old age. She wanted to choke Joffrey to death, push Tywin from a tower and poison Cersei’s wine. For a few years she wanted to murder Tyrion, too, but she couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything. “The Lannister’s are my family and I am true to Tyrion.”

“Of course you are,” Margaery squeezed Sansa’s hand. “But you’re not a little girl anymore. You’re one-and-twenty. You have three children: two boys of seven and six and a girl of five and you’ve suffered more than anyone I know. If I was in your position, I would want revenge.” _But you’re not in my position. You don’t fear for your life. You don’t need to fear for your children._ “Is Winterfell as beautiful as all the songs say?”

“It’s the most beautiful place in the world,” Sansa admitted. “But so is Highgarden. It was lovely to visit.”

“I’m sure it was lovely to go anywhere that wasn’t King’s Landing. You’d have been happy to go to the Wall if it meant you escaped from here.”

Sansa cast a nervous glance behind her, but the guards were a far distance away but she was still anxious that her voice would carry across the wind and other the sound of the gushing waves and reach them.

“King’s Landing is my home. The King and his mother are gracious to have me in their home for so long.”

“Don’t you ever tire of those lies? Has anybody ever told you that you’re a terrible liar?”

Everyone. “I’m not a liar, Your Grace.”

“I will pray in the sept that your son has a quiet ride to Casterly Rock and he is returned to you safely. When does he ride?”

“In a month; Lord Tywin wishes to stay longer until he learns of Daenerys’ plans.”

“How long will that be?”

_Forever I hope._

***

One month later, Tyran’s riding gear was saddled on his horse and he was dressed in his riding gown. His blonde hair blowing in the wind and covering his eyes, sniffing softly because he was miserable about leaving his parents and his siblings. Sansa clung onto him as they crossed the yard to where the horses were ready and Lord Tywin sat upon his grey mare, conversing with a man suited in armour.

The riding boy pulled Tyran onto his pony, and Sansa touched his knee.

“You be good,” she said, “and be safe.”

“I will.”

“Make sure Grandfather is nice to you,” Tyrion added. “And doesn’t tire you out on the road too much. If you’re tired you must tell him and ask for a rest. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Tyran smiled.

“And I love you,” Sansa added.

“I love you mother.”

Sansa reached up and planted a on her son’s cheek and she tried not to let any tears fall down hers as Tyran kicked his horse off and made route to his Grandfather who had started the ride west.

“Don’t cry,” Tyrion whispered, taking Sansa’s hand. “He’ll be back soon.”

She prayed to the Gods every day that he would be.

 


	18. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister host ride west.

The further north they rode on their journey to Casterly Rock, the colder it became. They would ride from dusk and dawn, stopping for no longer than a few hours each night with no breaks throughout the day. Tyran often had to pinch himself to keep him from falling asleep. Sometimes he wanted to cry but knew Grandfather wouldn’t like it if he did.

“You’re a Lannister,” Tywin told him on the second week of riding, the wind battling against them, slashing them like whips. “Lannister’s do not cry.”

“Yes Grandfather.”

Tyran’s mother had cried when she walked with him to the yard. She had pushed his golden hair back and kissed his face. He wished she was here now: her warmth and her arms around him and her love. Tyran wished his father was too, for him to laugh with and race on a horse. He wanted Robb here too to tell jokes and insult the guards and get them into trouble, and he wanted Alayne with her bothersome singing and girlish giggles.

But he wanted Alyse, too.

She visited him on the morning he was to ride west. Alyse had risen early and came to see him as his squire fastened the buckles on his boots and she dismissed him and her own guards to wait outside the door. She was wearing her father’s colours: gold and red and crossed the room and embraced Tyran.

“I don’t want you to go. Please don’t go.”

He hugged her back. “I have to go. I can’t not go anymore.”

“Take me with you.”

“You’re not allowed. I want you to come with me.”

She started to cry, and so did Tyran. He had never seen her cry before. In public, Alyse was her father’s daughter: dominant, endearing, terrifying, sadistic and beautiful. With Tyran, she was loving and kind.

“A whole year. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Tyran said, “I’ll write to you. I promise.”

“Will you send me your love?”

Tyran tried not to think back to their farewell; it would only make him cry. He had hoped she would join them unexpectedly, beaten by the wind, her dress rugged and her hair askew and ride with them to Casterly Rock but she never did.

He wondered if she would look any different in a year’s time. She would be taller and her hair would be longer. Perhaps she wouldn’t recognise him. Perhaps she’d think he was ugly. Alyse could never be ugly; she was the most beautiful person (aside his mother) that Tyran had ever seen.

Grandfather told him that when he was older he would marry Alyse’s cousin Helena Tyrell. Tyran didn’t want to marry her. She wasn’t beautiful like Alyse and she didn’t have curly golden hair and soft brown eyes. She didn’t make him laugh and she didn’t make him cry. He told Grandfather he didn’t want to marry Helena, but he got angry.

“Then who do you want to marry?” Tywin asked.

“Not her.”

“You’ll do your duty and marry the Tyrell girl as your parents married each other, and as your brother and sister will do too when the time is right. A good Lord knows who to wed and who to allow putting his heirs into.”

Tyran asked what that meant, and Tywin gave him gruesome details and he thought about it for a while until he brought back his breakfast from that morning. It was likely Tyran’s vomiting was from the vigorous ride and not from his Grandfather’s talk which prompted Tyran into imagining Lord Tywin doing such a thing, which he found hard to believe. He was always such a strict man. Tyran couldn’t imagine him ever kissing his Grandmother or being undressed in front of anyone. But Lord Tywin described it as a duty, and Tyran could believe his Grandfather doing his duty.

They were halfway through the ride when the weather turned bitterly cold and they had to exchange their thin leathers for thick fur. Tyran woke up one day for snow.

The last time he had seen snow was when he was at The Vale, and he had built snow forts and thrown snow at his little brother and father and Lord Robert.

So he tried to do the same.

Once Tyran was dressed and had eaten his bacon, he ran out outside where the snow fell to his ankles and melted in his golden hair. Nobody else looked as happy as Tyran to see snow. Nobody else was throwing snow at their friends or making snow castles. He asked one of his men why.

“Because snow’s a cruel thing, Ser Tyran,” said Ser Jacques who huddled round the fire with five men. “You won’t be having fun in it for long.”

“I love snow,” Tyran beamed.

“You won’t love it when it freezes your peasants and your family starves,” said one of the other men around the fire.

“What has snow got to do with people starving?” Tyran asked.

“You can’t grow food in the snow and the animals will freeze.”

“We have lots of food at the Red Keep,” Tyran announced proudly. “We won’t starve.”

The men exchanged what Tyran saw was an angry look and they moved away from him.

How could something so beautiful be perceived as so dangerous? Tyran clumped together a ball of snow and it fitted perfectly into a round lump.

Running through the snow as fast as he could, he wound through the men in their armour and steel to his Grandfather’s tent which was in the middle of all of them and next to Tyran’s. He waited outside the tent for a few minutes until Lord Tywin emerged, to which Tyran threw the snow at the back of his head and began to laugh.

His Grandfather lashed his body around to his Grandson who did not sense the Warden of the West’s anger. He marched on his Grandson whose laughter began to die down and seized him in his hand.

“Did you just throw snow at me?” Tywin demanded.

“Yes Grandfather.”

“Why?”

“B-Because I thought it would be funny, Grandfather. Father, Robb and I used to throw snow when we were at the Eyrie – I thought it was funny.” Lord Tywin gripped Tyran’s shoulder tighter and he could feel his fingernails through the thick leather of his wolf skin coat. “Gr-Grandfather, you’re hurting me.”

“If you ever throw snow at me again,” Lord Tywin sneered. “I will make you walk the rest of the way to Casterly Rock and have my men throw snow at _you_ along the way. Do you understand me?”

 _Grandfather will get angry if you cry._ “Yes Grandfather,” Tyran bit back tears. “Sorry Grandfather.”

Lord Tywin released the seven-year-old boy. “You’re a Lannister. Lannister’s don’t act like fools and you have just made me look like one in front of my men. What do you suppose I do about that to make them change their mind?”

“I-I don’t know Grandfather.”

“When your father would misbehave I would summon his Whipping Boy. You do not have a Whipping Boy, so should I have you hit?”

“I’m sorry Grandfather.”

Tywin glanced over his shoulder. “Clegane. Teach my Grandson a lesson about disrespecting his Lord.”

“Grandfather, please, I’m sorry!”

The Mountain had always terrified Tyran: towering over everybody, grunting and seldom saying a word and when he did, he was vile and cruel and insulting. Out of everybody who would raise a hand to Tyran, he wished it would never be The Mountain with his hands thicker than boulders.

 _I will not cry. I am a Lannister. I will not cry._ He blinked back tears as well as he could. Tyran took a breath. Whimpering, Gregor Clegane marched over to Tyran and stood almost double his height. He raised his hand and Tyran expected a terrible blow.

“Stop,” Tywin ordered. “Back away Clegane and march on with the men. Leave me with my Grandson.”

Tyran had been trembling and closed in on himself, his hands snaked around his torso, his eyes stinging with tears just waiting for the blow. Tywin approached his Grandson and put his hand back on his shoulder.

“If you ever disrespect me again, I will have Clegane hit you.”

Tyran nodded. “Yes Grandfather.”

“Now get on your horse and get out of my sight.”

Tyran feared his Grandfather and wondered why his father would let him be alone with such a man if he knew what he was like. They all knew what Lord Tywin was capable, Tyran noted; they all bowed and scraped in his presence and all look terrified. Perhaps Tyran should start acting frightened like everybody else. Lord Tywin frightened Alayne. When Alayne had snuck down to the kitchen to have a custard tart, their Grandfather had sent her back to the kitchens and instructed the cooks to not make custard tarts for the rest of the month. When Robb had been sparring with Prince Lucian and Robb decided to use a proper sword instead of a fake one, Lord Tywin had him face Ser Meryn Trant in a battle, and Trant had given Robb several cuts and bruises. Tyran never believed Tywin would frighten him like he did his brother and sister; he always thought his Grandfather loved him and that he loved his Grandfather. Clearly that was not the case.

When Tyran settled into bed, he would wrap himself in the quilt his mother gave him for his seventh name day: a patchwork quilt with his house’s colours. They alternated from a golden wolf on a red background to a red wolf on a golden background. Tyran preferred wolves to lions, but he knew not to speak openly about it.

He knew little of his mother’s family, only that they were traitors. His Grandfather had proclaimed that King Joffrey was not the rightful King, and his Uncle Robb had rebelled against the throne. He didn’t believe somebody could be capable of that. Why would his mother name his little brother for a traitor unless he wasn’t one? He would learn one thing from his Grandfather and another from his parents he would get confused.

“Grandfather says mother’s family are traitors,” Tyran whispered to his brother one night.

“Mother says they were nice,” Robb countered. “And Grandfather’s a horrid man.”

“Grandfather’s not horrid.”

“I hate him.”

“No you don’t!”

“I do! He makes Alayne cry and he let Ser Meryn hit me. Father was angry when I told him and made me promise not to tell mother. They put our Grandfather’s head on a spike.”

“He spoke openly against King Joffrey.”

“Then _he_ made mother look at it. Perhaps he shouldn’t be King.”

Perhaps Robb was right. Perhaps Lord Tywin was horrid and perhaps the Stark’s weren’t traitors as everybody said. Tyran stroked the soft fabric of the quilted wolf and felt guilty for ever thinking the Stark’s were bad people. When he thought about it too long he got upset, and it haunted his dreams for a few nights and his Grandfather did too.

By the time they arrived at Casterly Rock, Tyran only wanted to go home.


	19. The Dragon's Extinction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister's receive a relief and then a great grief.

Sansa should never have allowed Lord Tywin to take her son: her beautiful little boy who she was frightened for, but she only realised it too late. She refused any separation from Robb and Alayne, taking the habit of dismissing Alayne’s maids as her mother had done when Sansa herself was a young girl, so she could brush her thick auburn hair, and Sansa would read to Robb every night before bed about tales he wished to hear. She would pray with them at the Godswood – a luxury Lord Tywin had never allowed his Grandchildren to partake in. Now that he was gone and the King couldn't care less where Sansa's children prayed, she took them everyday.

“I like the Godswood better than the Sept,” Alayne said. She took her mother’s hand as they left the tree. “Mother, what’s the difference?”

“At the Godswood you worship the Old Gods. At the Sept you worship the Seven.”

“Oh,” Alayne said, “Robb, what do you prefer?”

Robb lingered to the side of his mother and sister, kicking a stone with his feet. “Is it going to snow soon, mother?”

The clouds above them were as dark as they had been at Winterfell and it was never warm enough to go anywhere without a cloak now. There was already snow at Casterly Rock, Tyran had written to his mother to tell, so in a couple of weeks winter would arrive at King’s Landing, too.

All her children had been born in the winter. They had never known a true summer. Everybody said this winter was going to be the longest anybody would ever see. Sansa prayed it wouldn’t.

“When’s Ty going to be back?” Robb demanded. “I miss him.”

“Eight months,” Sansa replied. “But when he’s back, we’re going to sail to Winterfell before the winter gets so bad we can’t go.”

“It’s not fair Ty gets to go to the west; I want to travel! I want to see the goldmines and Dorne and where King Robert killed Prince Rhaegar at the Trident!” Robb imitated slaying somebody with a hammer. “Mother, will we see the Trident when he go to Winterfell?”

“We’ll be sailing so no.”

Robb pouted. “I want to go to the Trident.”

“One day we’ll take you, but you saw it when you were a young boy when we went to The Vale.”

“I want to find Prince Rhaegar’s rubies.”

 _So did Arya,_ Sansa recollected. Her sister had ridden off with some boy in search for Rhaegar’s rubies and had instead got their Direwolves killed due to King Joffrey. It had been so long ago. They had all been so much happier then.

***

Court was always tiring, especially now that winter was upon them and news had travelled that Daenerys Targaryen was in Dorne. Small houses had flocked to support her claim as they predicted they would. Fights broke out in taverns if one house supported the throne and another the Mother of Dragons. Tyrion hated both sides. He couldn’t give two shits about who sat the Throne anymore.

Joffrey attended court only to Knight men and consent to having Lords and Ladies named after his children. There were hundreds of Lucian’s now – more than there had been Joffrey’s when he was born. Tyrion had only ever had one child named after him: a little bastard who lived at Stokeworth.

The worst thing about court when the King was there was that he always had Princess Alyse with him. Margaery had asked Joffrey to stop taking Alyse with him on the Iron Throne, but he was the King and even his Queen couldn’t stop him.

If Alyse should ever become Queen, she would be more ruthless than her father. One Lord from the Westerlands had not given Alyse a satisfying gift for her seventh name day and so she demanded his tongue in payment, all the while Joffrey laughed mockingly, beaming proudly at his daughter. The girl was as monstrous as her father. Alyse was her father’s daughter and Lucian was his mother’s son while Princess Alysanne was a mixture of them both: she was nasty and callous on a lesser scale than her elder sister, but also had a merciful and kind side like her little brother. Joffrey preferred taking Alyse to court than Lucian; his Prince would try and spare everyone’s life and let punishment go amiss to the point Joffrey would hit him in front of everyone and call him weak.

He cried to Tyrion one day after court, wrapping his chubby little arms around Tyrion’s waist and sobbed.

“I hate him! I hate him! Uncle, stop him please. He’s going to kill those men!”

 _Hundreds of men have died under his realm, little one. But fewer will die under you._ “It is his job as King to show justice.”

“Justice! He’s killing people! Uncle it’s not right; it’s unfair!”

The boy was five and wiser than his father would ever aspire to be. “Hush, hush now. Where’s your mother?”

“In her solar with Alysanne.”

“Go to her. Your father won’t mind if you leave. Go on. I’ll take you there myself.”

Tyrion put a hand on his back and lead him to his mother’s chambers.

***

When Alyse did her sewing with her Septa, she stabbed at her fabric imagining it to be Tyran, remembering the grief he had caused her when she left him. She asked if she could go into mourning for him, but her parent’s had laughed and father had taken her to see the dragon skeletons in the dungeon. It made her feel better, but she missed Tyran immensely.

She wanted Lord Tywin’s head for taking her friend away from her. She’d asked him not to: told him in the name of the King to keep him here, but Tywin had cast her to one side and told his Squire to saddle his horse while he reprehended Alyse for the friendship they had together.

Nobody would ever get in their way again, Alyse vowed. She’d kill them if they did.

***

When Tyrion went to the Throne Room, Cersei was sat in it, a letter in her hand, tears rolling down her cheek but with a smile on her face, laughing as she did so. She was very beautiful, Tyrion noted; the light hit her perfectly as she sat towering over him on the throne he was so used to her son sitting on and her Granddaughter sending men to their death or torturous future. Tyrion couldn't tell if she was pleased with the content of the letter or distraught, and a sudden pang of fear spread over Tyrion as he thought it was about his own son. But why would Cersei care if Tyran was dead? It could be about Myrcella, and that was almost as harrowing as the thought of Tyran's fate being told by a letter.

“Oh Tyrion!” Cersei called from the throne. She climbed down the steps and ran to him. “She’s dead!”

“Who’s dead?”

She was so giddy. She could not help but contain her excitement. “The Dragon Bitch! She’s dead.”

Perhaps the day would go better than planned, Tyrion mused. There would be no great war between the Targaryen's and the crown. His children would not be put to the knife and his wife would not be raped and murdered and Tyrion himself would not face the consequences.

“Jaime killed her! Oh Tyrion, it was Jaime!”

“ _Jaime_?”

“He wrote to me!” She thrust the letter at Tyrion. “He has Myrcella! They’re coming home! They’re coming back to me.”

The writing was undoubtedly Jaime’s, but Cersei snatched it away when Tyrion took it to read. Tyrion was not surprised; it was the first bit of contact Cersei had with her lover in over five years. She was frivolous with joy and lifted Tyrion and swung him around in her arms, and she laughed louder than any man could shout.

“He discovered Myrcella was still in Dorne when Daenerys arrived! He sailed to Sunspear, snuck into her tent and slit her throat, took Myrcella and now they’re riding to King’s Landing! Oh _Tyrion_! This is – this is wonderful!”

“I could not be happier; this is great news.”

Beaming: “After everything we’ve been through. This is the best news... Jaime is coming back to me with Myrcella. Oh _Tyrion..._ ”

However, Cersei’s happiness was later destroyed. A few days later a wooden box was delivered to Cersei by a rider in the night, left for her in her solar as she slept. The contents of the wooden box was the grim and insect infested, stinking head of Cersei's only daughter. There was no letter. There was no explanation. No letters from Jaime came as to why Myrcella had been delivered to her mother in a wooden box.

And Cersei screamed and cried and battled against anybody who tried to restrain her. Tommen rode in the night to Storms End and to avenge his sister’s death if he would discover who did this. Only Cersei and Tommen seemed to be harrowed by the death of a young girl. Joffrey had promised a castle to anybody who found his sister’s murderer but it was nothing to the grief Cersei felt.

“I will find who did this, mother,” Tommen vowed the night he rode to Storms End. “And I will kill them and give their head to their mother without a word.”

“Stay safe,” Cersei whispered. “Keep away from Dorne. At the first sight of danger-”

“-I shall fight them and avenge Myrcella. I will not run away. I am a lion: I will not run from them.”

“No,” Cersei whispered, her voice hoarse. She grabbed her youngest son’s face with both hands and pulled him close. “You are my son.”

He kissed his mother’s forehead. “I will ride back soon,” Tommen promised. “Hopefully with Uncle Jaime.”

“You do that,” Cersei smiled. “My dearest boy. Remember that I love you. I love you so dearly much.”

“I love you too, mother. But I must bid you farewell; Cathy is waiting for me and we're running late. Joff will try and stop me if he knows I'm going. Will you come with me?”

“To see you off?”

“No, to Storms End.”

Cersei shook her head. “My place is here. You stay safe. You do what you think is right; you are a man now, but you are still my little boy.”

“I will always need you mother.”

Neither of them wanted to be separated from one another, but Tommen kissed his mother one final time and left the room. Once he was gone, Cersei wept for him.

 

 

 


	20. Sharp Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime goes to Tommen at Storms End.

“Uncle Jaime!”

“Tommen!”

Tommen raced across the room and embraced his Uncle. He had grown much larger than the last time Jaime saw him: at least another foot and stood taller than Jaime could ever recall Joffrey ever being. Jaime himself was not much taller than Tommen, there was perhaps less than a few inches between them. Prince Tommen was better looking than his older brother and better built. As humble as possible, Jaime could see himself in Tommen.

“Uncle Jaime... What happened to Myrcella?”

“May I sit down?”

Jaime was not as strong as he had once been and took a seat in the chair opposite his son’s desk. Tommen did not sit on the other side, but beside him rather than opposite. Jaime placed a hand on Tommen’s arm.

“I never rode with Myrcella. She was dead when I got to Dorne. It was from Ser Arys Oakheart that I learned she was dead. He wrote to me and I boarded a ship and rode to Sunspear. You know the rest. The rest of my letter was true.”

“You killed Daenerys Targaryen? Did she kill Myrcella?”

“It was one of Prince Oberyn’s bastards and I murdered her too. It was the second or third eldest – I didn’t really care. Myrcella was dead and Daenerys planned on taking King’s Landing in a few months. She would have killed you all and burned Westeros to the ground in her wake. I struck the chains off her dragons and Arys Oakheart burned their camp to the ground. I don’t know how many men were killed, but it will stop them riding to the Red Keep, I am sure.”

Tommen blinked at him with his bright green eyes. “All for your niece?”

“And my family. You mustn’t tell your mother or Joffrey the truth; I trust you because I know you can handle the truth. You are strong. You must stay strong for her.”

“She wants you back; she misses you.”

“And I miss her,” Jaime put a hand on Tommen’s curls.

 _I should tell him. He is a kind boy he will not be angry._ But whether or not Tommen accepted him as a father was something different. King Robert had never been a father to Tommen, but neither had Jaime, though he would have been if Cersei had allowed it. He would have been the greatest father in the entire Seven Kingdoms if she let him.

“Tommen,” Jaime let out a deep breath. “There is something I must tell you. Something that you cannot tell your mother and brother. Something you must keep between me and you. A secret: like my visit to you and the truth about Myrcella. Do I have your word?”

“Of course.”

Jaime gripped the chair arm with the only hand he had left, and he searched Tommen’s face for a sign that would stop Jaime. But there was none.

“I should have told you when you were little. I should never have kept the truth from you. I wanted to tell Myrcella when I got to her at Dorne, but it was too late. Tommen... Sweet boy... You must not be angry, you must not be afraid. You are a lion-”

“I am not a lion,” Tommen whispered. “I am your son.”

Jaime laughed and found himself in Tommen’s arms. His son had hugged him: accepted him and forgave him. Jaime flung his left arm around Tommen and clung onto him tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” Jaime breathed in Tommen’s ear.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is my fault. I should have been there for you.”

Tommen withdrew. “You’re here now.”

***

King Robert had always been a terrible father to Tommen. He could not remember time they had ever spent alone or Robert ever say anything good about Tommen. He had called his son weak and not fit to be a King. Jaime had always been kind to him though. It was he Tommen ran to when he was frightened and when he was sad.

He had heard the whispers and listened to the rumours. He heard Ladies of court whispering into people’s ears when Tommen walked by with Jaime even as a young boy. He never knew what to think of it, only when he was younger he had wished that Jaime was his father and not King Robert. Though Tommen knew the truth, he didn’t know how he should react to it. Jaime had denounced Joff as King. Denounced Tommen of his right to Storms End.

“You’re a better son than I ever deserved,” Jaime admitted. “A good, kind boy, even when you’re a man grown.” Tommen gave a small smile for the Knight. What should he call him? Uncle? Father? Or just Jaime? “I always wanted to tell you and Myrcella.”

“Not Joff?”

***

Joffrey was nothing more to Jaime than his seed he had spilled in Cersei: nothing more to him than his Nephew. But Myrcella and Tommen, they were good children and kind people. They were not messed up like Cersei and himself. If they would not accept him as their father, they would not resent him.

“Never once did I hold Joff as a child. I cradled you and Myrcella hundreds of times when your mother let me. I cradled Myrcella’s corpse in my arms and I pray to the God’s I never have to cradles yours.”

***

Tommen looked down at his lap and began to pick at his fingers. “I-I don’t want to think about it: Myrcella’s death. They sent her head back to mother.”

“And they sent you back to me.”

It frightened Tommen. There was something wrong with Jaime. His eyes were red and glassy, his face was gaunt and his lips crusted. He shivered as he spoke and it wasn’t due to the cold because winter had barely reached Storms End and there was a roaring fire just next to them. He wasn’t himself.

“Will you stay at Storms End long?”

Jaime frowned. “What?”

Tommen rose out of his seat and walked to the fire. “How long do you plan on staying in the south? A week? A month? A year? Your whole life?”

“Tommen... The future is not important. If Dorne taught me anything is that I shouldn’t have sheltered you from the truth.”

He would be put to death if the truth got out. The small folk and Lords and Ladies would rise against the crown. If Stannis was alive, they would support him. Stannis was dead and truly a fake King sat on the Throne.

“You can’t tell Joff,” Tommen said.

“Of course I’ not going to tell Joffrey – do you consider me completely senile?”

“Yes!”

***

Tommen laughed. “I don’t even know what to call you: Uncle or Father.”

“This is overwhelming for you I am sure, but Tommen...”

Jaime trailed off. What else was he to say? He had convinced himself on the ride here that it was the right thing to tell his sweet Tommen that he was his son. But Tommen was laughing now, almost delusional.

“When Ned Stark denounced Joff as King, he was put to death. He was murdered for speaking the truth – how could mother stand aside and let that happen?”

“To protect you, Tommen,” Jaime joined Tommen at the fire, the roaring flames engulfing father and son in the heat. “Your place is here at Storms End. You have an army of people, a hoard of small folk and a strong defense. You are not in any danger for knowing the truth.”

The little Lord studied his father. “I sit at the Baratheon stronghold but I am not a Baratheon. I’m a Lannister.”

“Then by all means change your name: your mother and Grandfather would be _delighted_.”

“Is this all a game to you?”

“Your mother once called it the game of thrones.”

Tommen laughed derisively. “I don’t care what she called it. I do not sit on a throne: I sit on a Lord’s chair. A chair that by right should belong to my father – _no_ – King Robert. I’m not his son. I am yours. If anything I should sit at Casterly Rock. Not Tyran.”

“What will you do? Rise against him? You have Storms End, don’t take Casterly Rock away from the boy. Sit at Storms End as their Lord. Nobody would dare challenge you now that there is no one else in competition for the throne.”

Tommen considered it. “But it’s not mine.”

“Your mother was not mine, she was Robert’s to be beaten and abused and tortured-”

“-Don’t-”

“-And if it wasn’t for me and for you and your brother and sister, she would have ended it all. Do your mother the gratitude of being a good boy and ruling at Storms End as a better person than Robert. When you marry and have children-”

“-I am wed.”

Jaime was surprised. “Oh. Oh. I’m sorry – I didn’t know. I should have gotten you a gift.”

“It’s alright. The truth is your gift to me. Will you stay at Storms End with us? But only if you ride back to mother.”

“I’m returning to the Riverlands,” Jaime declared. “I’m not staying here.”

“Please. If only for the night.”

Jaime turned to his son and he pressed his hand against his cheek. “I have a duty to uphold in the Riverlands. I cannot betray my oath. I’ll likely not see you again though.”

“Then at least break your fast with me and have a bath.”

“Tommen, I really can’t.”

“I insist,” Tommen took Jaime’s arm and lead him back to the desk where Tommen grabbed a plate of prunes and a bowl of oats and thrust them at his father. “They’ll just go to waste. Take them, _father_.”

It was Tommen calling Jaime father that prompted Jaime to stay the night. However, by morning when Tommen rose early to see his father off on the road, he had already gone, leaving behind the sword his own father had melted from Ned Stark’s great sword Ice.

“He called it Oathkeeper,” Tommen whispered. “I shall name it Myrcella.”

 


	21. A Lion's Face, a Wolf's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin briefly reflects on the past and his legacy and the Princess always gets what she wants.

Tywin stood over on his balcony, staring out at the docks of Lannisport. Tyran was playing with the children down there as Tywin’s own children had once done. Only this time, the Lannister child who played on the docks was escorted by numerous guards. Tywin could see where they stood; their golden helmets reflected against the sun. He could not see his Grandson, playing with the common children in the waters, jumping off the wooden board walks. Tywin much preferred it that way; what he didn't know wouldn't concern him.

He turned his back on the docks where his Grandson played and focused on his chambers. What caught his eye - the main object of the room - was the four poster bed, raised up from the room on a platform. His wife had died in this room on that very bed, clutching at the wooden frame. Upon Tywin’s close inspection, he could see the dents her fingernails had made in the pain she felt when Tyrion was pulled from her; wood work was chipped, scraped and dented. Sometimes, Tywin would run his forefinger over them and remember that dreadful night he had held Joanna in his arms as he watched the life drain from her without anything that he could do, leaving nothing but a screaming, twisted baby in her midst. 

Tywin returned to the balcony, deciding not to dwell on the death of his wife for too long, where his younger brother Kevan sat reading a letter. “Jaime was at Storms End,” Kevan announced. “Tommen wrote to you. Jaime gave Tommen his sword you forged from Ned Stark’s. He named it Myrcella.”

Tywin snorted. “The boy is a fool, as is Jaime.”

“Doesn’t it make you wonder _why_ Jaime gave Tommen his sword? Your legacy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I know why.”

Kevan pushed the letter aside. “What will Tommen do?”

“Nothing. What could he do? If he spoke openly the Lords of Storms End would rise against him; they don’t like that Tommen is their liege Lord: a second son and rumoured bastard. Nearly all of them acknowledge Stannis Baratheon as their true Lord and King even still. Tommen is a fool, but he is clever enough to realise a mistake when one can be made.”

“You’d hope so.”

“I know so otherwise the boy would have mentioned the truth in the letter!”

Kevan scowled. “Calm down.”

“He gave his bloody sword to Tommen. If he did not want it, he should have returned it to me. _Valyrian Steel_ in the hands of a Baratheon with a name like _Myrcella."_

"But Tommen is not a Baratheon, he's a Lannister."

"Only by blood.  _Gods_ Tommen is a fool; it will only start rumours about a relationship he and Myrcella had, similar to Jaime and Cersei's... What would possess him to give a Valyrian Steel sword the name  _Myrcella_ after his dead sister?"

“He also named one of his new kittens Tywin,” Kevan smiled.

“He substitutes his wife’s poor ability in producing children with _kittens_ and ill-named swords.”

“He has only been married a few months and what is there to be done about it now? Tommen has learned the truth and he has named his sword after his sister. Is there really any harm in that?”

Tywin ignored his brother and he returned his attention to his Grandson. “The sooner that boy comes of age the better. As soon as the Tyrell girl bleeds they will marry within the month. We return to King’s Landing in two weeks and I will likely not return to the Rock. Do I still entrust its safety with you?”

“Of course,” Kevan said, “only don’t be too hard on Tyran. Remember above everything else he is your Grandson.”

“No,” Tywin disagreed. “Before anything else, he is my legacy.”

***

Tyran was coming home today and Alyse was excited.

She had her maids do her hair fancy in the way he had told her once he liked it: curly and half of it pinned back from her face with the rest hanging down her back. She also wore a fine gown and a fur coat a trader from the East had gifted her with for her eighth name day.

Alyse hoped he had not forgotten her, for she had certainly not forgotten him.

***

They assembled outside the Red Keep awaiting the Lannister’s return. It had been over a year since Sansa had seen her son. She had missed his eighth and ninth name day, something that Sansa never thought she would experience. She hoped Tyran would not resent her for it.

They would go to Winterfell soon though, Tyrion had promised her. A few months after they returned from Casterly Rock they would ride north and stay for a while. The voyage would take three weeks by Tyrion’s calculations if the weather was on their side, so they would be away from the capitol for almost two years. That had delighted Sansa the most.

She tried to focus on the present, though, and waited anxiously for her nine-year-old son to ride in with a large host behind him on the grey stallion his parents had gifted him for his eighth name day. He named the horse Lann, apparently.

Then there he was.

***

Tyran came riding through at the front of the procession riding the grey stallion he and Sansa had sent for him while he was at Casterly Rock. He wore new breeches and leathers and a golden helmet too. He looked like a man grown sat atop his horse, his shoulder-length curls bouncing in the wind, snow crusting and melting atop it.

His horse rounded the yard until Tyran slowed it to a stop. Before his squire could assist him from the horse, he dismounted in a quick and graceful jump and removed helmet, placing it on his crimson saddle. He had been so proper and Lord like that it seemed improper when he ran into his mother’s arms.

“Mother!” His voice was muffled in Sansa’s cloak. “Father.”

She was almost in tears, Tyrion noticed. That was not surprising.

“We missed you – where’s my hug?”

Tyran pulled away from his mother and jumped into his father’s arms. It was alarming how much taller Tyran had grown. He already stood two inches taller than his father, and Tyran grinned, realising the same thing as his short father.

“I’m bigger than you.”

“Don’t feel too special; most men are.”

“And children.”

He laughed and then kissed his eldest son on his cheek. “Don’t ever go away again. We’re not letting you leave us for the rest of your life.”

“I won’t, father,” Tyran promised.

***

They held a feast in the Queen’s Ballroom for Lord Tywin and Ser Tyran’s return. It was a dinner of seven courses with the High Lords and Ladies who lived near King’s Landing or who were visiting. There were almost fifty people in attendance to the dinner, and Tywin had taught his Grandson all of their names, so he told Tyrion. Bronn’s wife came to the dinner, and courteously, Bronn dined with her throughout, leaving his duties as Robb’s protector for another night. There were musicians playing their harps and strings, their melodious voices dulled by the sound of laughter and conversation from the guests, though they had heard their renditions of the Rains of Castamere countless times.

It was a dull evening, despite the feast being held for his son, Tyrion found that he lacked the company of almost everyone in the room. His children played with the royals and their friends, his wife spent the whole evening with Queen Margaery and Tyrion was more likely to join in with the musicians than he would be converse with Lord Tywin and the King, so he sat rather calmly, listening to the songs the singers sung.

 _And old Lord Walder slit her throat,_  
and took the North King’s head.  
Replaced it with his Direwolf,  
and joined their dear old Ned.

 _Paraded it around the twins,_  
threw the fish’s body in the lake.  
And Good King Joffrey rode away,  
for all the North men’s sake.  
  


“Were you there for the wedding?” Tyrion asked the singer abruptly. “Did you see all this happen?”

“No my Lord,” replied the singer.

“So you should know that Walder Frey was more likely to get blood on his hands than you are to escape with your lives tonight. Leave this castle or I’ll allow the royal Princess to decide your fate.”

“But – but the King-”

“-Cares as much for your life as he does for mine. Now be wise and get out of here or I’ll replace your heads with your harps. _Leave. Now._ ”

They did as commanded, bowing for the King who had barely stirred throughout the conversation. Tyrion muttered into his wine and caught his wife’s eye from across the table. He smiled at her and raised his cup.

“To the North,” he mouthed.

***

Nobody had noticed them slipping off. Even Tyran had not noticed immediately because his Princess had grabbed him so quickly, pulling him out of the room and running down a corridor before the guards could chase after them. None did, and Princess Alyse pulled Tyran into an empty cupboard and pushed him against the wall, planting a kiss on his lips.

“Hullo,” Tyran whispered when she released him.

“I missed you,” she gasped. “Please don’t leave me.”

He was going to Winterfell in a few months. They were travelling on his ship _Alyse_ and would be away for almost two years. Truth be told, he didn’t want to leave her; he had missed her terribly while he had been away at Casterly Rock and it had been an overwhelming joy to see her again.

“I’ll try not to,” Tyran said meekly.

She grabbed his shoulders. “No! You will never leave me again. Tyran please don’t. Don’t you love me?”

“Yes I do, but I shouldn’t. I-I’m to marry Helena.”

“I’ll kill her if I have to. I’ll kill everyone if it meant we could be together.”

“We’re nine-years-old – we don’t know what love is!”

She stepped back from him and crossed her arms, frowning. “Oh really? And who told you that? Your _Grandfather_?” Tyran nodded. “Well my father says I can do anything I want because I’m the Princess and if I want to, I will marry you.”

“I made a vow.”

“Vows can be broken. Your mother and my father were supposed to be married but he broke his vow so he could marry his love: the Queen.”

Tyran did not know that. “Really?”

“Uh-huh, so if I asked my father nicely, he’ll let us marry! Would you marry me if he agreed?” Tyran shrugged, and Alyse kissed him again. “Yes you will. You _will_ marry me.”

“Fine,” said Tyran quietly, “I’d marry you.”

She looked delighted: her brown eyes opened with joy and she grabbed Tyran by the hand and spun him around, both of them laughing as they bashed into old books and pots of ink smashed to the ground all around them. Tyran loved the ecstatic look on her face. He loved _her_.

Though their happiness was short-lived when Lord Tywin opened the cupboard door with Ser Meryn at his hip. While Tyran stopped dancing, Princess Alyse continued to laugh. Tyran met his Grandfather’s eye while Alyse did no such thing.

“Why are you not at dinner?” Lord Tywin inquired.

“We’re busy.”

Tywin scanned the cupboard. “Your Grace, would you be so kind as to return to dinner? I want to speak to Tyran.” _Oh no_. Alyse smiled and skipped away, acting the precious girl that she was not for him, while in a few minutes time she would return to bullying the other children and making them cry to their mothers. “Ser Meryn, accompany her.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Ser Meryn left and Tywin stared at his Grandson. “Get out of the cupboard.”

“Yes Grandfather.”

He did as commanded, closing the wooden door from behind. “Are you going to tell me why you left the dinner without an escort and I find you in a cupboard with the royal Princess?”

“We were playing, Grandfather.”

“You were playing at dinner. What were you playing with her?”

He swallowed. “I – We – She-”

“-Do not lie to me. What were you doing with Princess Alyse?” He could not tell him that he loved her and that she loved him. He would be angry, he might get The Mountain to threaten him again or actually stick to his threat. Tyran bit the cuticle of his thumb. “Perhaps you should spend less time with the Princess for now on, and more time with your betrothed.”

“But Grandfather... I like Alyse but Helena she’s...” Not Alyse. “ _Boring_.”

“Boring she may be but she is to be your wife. You will not leave without a guard again and especially not with the Princess. Am I understood?”

Tyran wanted to argue. He so desperately wanted to plead with Lord Tywin to allow him to spend more time with her, but the calculating look he received told him more than he already knew.

“Yes Grandfather.”

“Good. I recommend that you spend some of your leisure time with Lady Helena tomorrow. Perhaps you could take her for a walk, or paint with her or go riding. I know you enjoy riding.”

“Yes Grandfather.”

“Good. I shall have Ser Meryn over watch you. Now return to dinner and ask your betrothed to ride with you on the morrow.”

“Yes Grandfather.”

***

Helena took too long to meet Tyran at the stables. By the time the Tyrell girl entered the yard, Tyran’s horse was already saddled and the rider was already sat atop it, his breeches tightened and his belts buckled. It was a warm day for winter, a time that Tyran could have spent playing with his brother, but instead he had to go riding with his betrothed to his Grandfather’s request.

Tyran didn’t know that Tywin was hoping to accomplish; riding was no place for conversations and they were joined by twenty soldiers to protect them. They were going to go riding on the coast of Blackwater Bay: his brother Robb’s favourite place and stay for the morning.

“Hello Ser,” Helena greeted meekly when she mounted her black mare.

“Hullo,” Tyran sniffed.

“Thank you for asking me to ride.”

Helena lived with Tyran as his parent’s foster daughter, to raise her for a life of court and Ladyship with her husband and had quickly befriended Tyran’s sister Alayne. He dined with Helena most nights but he still found her insufferable and a stranger.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

Tyran gave the instructions to begin the walk. He gripped his reigns tightly and desired to kick his heels into his mare and gallop away from Lady Helena. That would anger his Grandfather though, and when Lord Tywin was angry it was frightening.

She began by asking him questions about his visit to Casterly Rock and whether or not he lived the winter. Many silences were shared between the two of them, and once Tyran’s horse’s hoof plunged into the golden sand, the wind fiercely hitting him in the face, all Tyran wanted to do was return home.

Robb loved the open water and the golden beaches and the salty water, but Tyran never saw the appeal. The sand would get in between his toes and the wind was always shockingly sharp and the sea always cold. But Robb loved it and would run into the water, screaming and laughing with Alayne and Prince Lucian.

“Does your horse have a name, Ser?” Helena asked.

Tyran looked down at his grey mare. “Lann, my Lady.”

“Why?”

Tyran shrugged. “He founded House Lannister.”

“Mine’s called Jeyne.”

 _I don’t care._ Tyran gritted his teeth and steered away from Helena and closer towards the shore and much to Tyran’s bother, Helena followed him.

“Do you like the coast, Ser?”

“No,” Tyran replied.

There was a pause. “When are you going to Winterfell?”

“Soon.”

“When?”

“Three or four months.”

“I’m going to Highgarden when you go.” Tyran had thought Helena was going with them, and he was extremely relieved to learn that she was not he smiled at his betrothed. “I miss my mother and father and brother. Did you miss them when you went to Casterly Rock?”

“I was with Grandfather.”

“So you didn’t miss them?”

Tyran missed them immensely, but he remembered Lord Tywin giving him a piece of advice that stuck in his mind: _Do not show true emotion and never love anybody for when they leave you, it will only cause hurt._ Tyran had tried not to love his mother and father, to grow irritated with them at whatever they did, but he couldn’t. He loved Robb too much and he had tried to hate Alayne, too. The hardest to hate and the one he should the most was Princess Alyse. He hoped Casterly Rock would make him forget and no longer love her, but it had not. His Grandfather had also told him to _never delay anybody when speaking to them, if you want them to know something or you wish to ask them a question then don’t hesitate. Be blunt._

“Your lips are very pretty, my Lady,” Tyran remarked. “But they would look better if they were closed.” Alyse had said that to her sister. It had made Tyran laugh for ages.

He heard her gasp, and the rest of their ride was long and painfully silent.

***

Alayne came to see him shortly after the ride. He was sat in his chamber, reading a book Grandfather had given him when his little sister shot through the door, her auburn hair willowing around her as she ran to her brother and grabbed him.

“You made her cry! Helena – you made her cry!”

Tyran closed his book and set it to one side. “So?”

“You upset her! She loves you and you upset her!”

The future Lord of Casterly Rock was disinterested. “Go away Alayne. Go and play with your dolls.”

She hit him. It was only a light blow but it had shocked him. Out of him and Robb, Alayne had always been closer to Robb. He did not envy him, nor did he wish it was him who Alayne played with because Tyran had Alyse and didn’t need his little sister – though he loved her dearly – if he had the Princess.

“I do not play with dolls! Just because I am a girl don’t mean I play with dolls. I spar with Robb – and just yesterday Lucian told me I was the best sparer he had ever seen in his whole entire life.”

“Well, the Prince is seven so that isn’t a very long life.” She hit him again. “What do you want?”

“You made Helena cry! You told her to be quiet!”

“If that made her cry then she needs to grow up. You can go and tell her that I won’t marry her if she acts like such a baby. I don’t even want to marry her. I don’t even _like_ her but Grandfather’s forcing me.”

“You’re horrible,” Alayne hissed. “You’re horrible and I hate you!”

Alayne gathered up her navy skirts around her ankles and fled from the room. Tyran thought to apologise to his sister, but apologising Alayne would only lead to needing to apologise to Helena. Undoubtedly his Grandfather would make him do that on the morrow, and maybe Tyran would refuse and claim his love for Princess Alyse. That was what Tyran wanted to happen, but he knew that would never happen: he would never marry the Princess and he would be forced to marry Helena once they came of age. He could dream, though. Nothing stopped him dreaming.


	22. Numbness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister's arrive at Winterfell to receive shocking news, Jaime returns to his sister in the Sept and Margaery tries too hard to impress her youngest daughter.

Winterfell was so beautiful, even when it had been restored the Smiths had done such a job that upon a far look, even Sansa hadn’t even noticed that it had been rebuilt. It was the memories that differentiated them though. Once, Robb had smashed a hole in the side of the small dining room so large Bran and Arya had climbed through it, but when Sansa went to see if it was still there, it no longer was. She looked to see if the names she and Jon had carved into the stables of the names of their horses were still there, but they were not. It saddened Sansa that the proof of all these memories had disappeared, but when she thought of them, they were still as fresh in her mind as if they had been just yesterday.

A heavy snow covered the ground of Winterfell and settled on the thatched roofs. The snow settled to Sansa’s knees when she dismounted her mare but she did not notice. She was in a trance, completely in awe and fascination that she was back home at Winterfell, where the world had been safe and pure and just and good.

It was just how Sansa had remembered with its turrets and its towers and the keep. It was as busy and as lively as it had been ten years ago and it was like nothing had changed. If she kept her mind clear of all the bad that had happened to her in the past decade of her life, she could almost be completely happy if she imagined that she was young again and naive to the world.

Robb joined her at her hip. “This will be your new home.”

Her middle child looked as in awe with Winterfell as she did. “It’s beautiful. Better than the Red Keep.”

Winterfell had a certain beauty about it when the snow set on the gargoyles and decorated wolf heads that the Red Keep could never dream of acquiring. The snow had a special warmth to it, ironically it was colder than at King’s Landing, but it was better for the fact that Sansa had been loved and loved here.

Her little husband did not share the same love for Winterfell that Sansa did, for he went straight to Ser Garlan and his wife Lady Leonette thanking them for protecting Winterfell for them while their son was too young to reign.

***

“My wife seems to be slightly dazed at being home,” Tyrion smiled at Ser Garlan. “But she will give you her thanks later.”

“It has been an honour to stand as regents of Winterfell until your son comes of age,” little Lady Leonette complimented. “Winterfell is very lovely, but much colder than the south.”

“I don’t know; King’s Landing was bitter when we left.”

 _Bitter._ Bitter people and bitter weather. Bitter just about summed up King’s Landing.

“We do give our condolences though,” Ser Garlan bowed his head.

“Yes. Myrcella’s death was tragic to us all: a lovely and spritely girl should not have-” he caught Ser Garlan’s eye, and Tyrion frowned. “Have we missed something?”

“They sent us a raven in the second week of your voyage,” Ser Garlan explained. “They knew ravens would never reach you on your travel, but your Nephew Prince Tommen was murdered.”

That shocked Tyrion. _Tommen killed?_ Tommen was _murdered_? He had always been such a kind boy, never getting into any trouble or starting fights like his older brother.

“He went south with a host of men to kill Prince Oberyn’s natural daughters: apparently one had murdered his sister Myrcella. They were outnumbered and Tommen was slain in combat along with a majority of men – others returned to the Stormlands with their tails between their legs in defeat, returning to their wives and families a coward for leaving Prince Tommen.”

 _Tommen._ The words had not sunken in. First it had been Myrcella and then a few years later, it was Tommen attempting to avenge his sister. It was inequitable. Tommen and Myrcella had been innocent and kindly and died. King Joffrey was a cruel brute, but he still lived. What sort of impertinence was this? Why would the Gods take Myrcella and Tommen but spare Joffrey? More harm would happen under Joffrey in a week than a lifetime with Myrcella and Tommen.

“We can discuss this later,” Tyrion muttered under his breath. “After dinner,” he added to Ser Garlan.

So were they finally at war with Dorne? The rivalry between the Martells and Lannisters seemed to last a lifetime. The Lannister’s had always been known to crush their enemies, so why couldn’t they defeat Dorne?

***

Cersei cradled Tommen’s body in her arms in the sept. His golden hair was pushed back by his golden crown and he looked so peaceful lying there. He looked as if he was almost sleeping. He had been a fool to march on Dorne, Cersei acknowledged, but a brave and honourable fool.

She mourned for Tommen more than Myrcella because she never got to see her daughter’s body. But with Tommen, she cradled him in the sept and spilled tears down his plump, rosy cheeks. His wife had done them the decency by falling with child and told Cersei if she graced them with a son she’d name it Tommen, and if a daughter, she’d be named Cersei.

_“Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds.”_

It kept haunting her memory. First Myrcella and then Tommen. How soon would Joffrey die? How soon would she lose her life to the Valonqar? Tyrion was at Winterfell so perhaps she was safe for a few years. But how could she feel safe knowing that Joffrey was in danger? Her darling little boy – he was no longer a boy, but in Cersei’s eyes he always would be.

Tommen lay before the Stranger as Cersei grasped his lifeless hand. He was frozen and his fingers stiffer than a sword blade. His green eyes were open and glassy and the stab wound he suffered to his heart had been cleaned and hidden by his extravagant golden shrouds. She had asked to be alone in her time of mourning and was shocked when someone entered.

“ _Jaime_ ,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

He paced across the room and Cersei watched him walk. This was not the man who had left her ten years ago. This was a stranger whose beautiful golden hair had vanished, his face gaunt and hollow and he was slender and knife-like. Cersei got to her knees and tumbled on Jaime, grabbing his shoulders.

“Is it truly you?” She whispered, tracing his cheekbones with her finger. “You should have got to him sooner, to keep him safe.”

“I did,” Jaime breathed. “I did go to him.”

“Then you should have stayed.”

“I came as fast as I could when I learned he had been killed,” he whispered. “I snuck past the city gates so I could find you. How did it happen?”

“Our sweet boy went for revenge for Myrcella but those bastards he called his men turned on him. Oh Jaime, sweet Jaime, you are here. You have come to me at last.” She gave him a light kiss. “I am not whole without you.”

There was no tenderness in the kiss he returned to her, only hunger. Her mouth opened for his tongue. "No," she said weakly when his lips moved down her neck, "not here. The septons..."

"The Others can take the septons." He kissed her again, kissed her silent, kissed her until she moaned. Then he knocked the candles aside and lifted her up onto the Mother's altar, pushing up her skirts and the silken shift beneath. She pounded on his chest with feeble fists, murmuring about the risk, the danger, about their father, about the septons, about the wrath of gods. He never heard her. He undid his breeches and climbed up and pushed her bare white legs apart. One hand slid up her thigh and underneath her smallclothes. When he tore them away, he saw that her moon's blood was on her, but it made no difference.

"Hurry," she was whispering now, "quickly, quickly, now, do it now, do me now. Jaime Jaime Jaime." Her hands helped guide him. "Yes," Cersei said as he thrust, "my brother, sweet brother, yes, like that, yes, I have you, you're home now, you're home now, you're home." She kissed his ear and stroked his short bristly hair. Jaime lost himself in her flesh. He could feel Cersei's heart beating in time with his own, and the wetness of blood and seed where they were joined.

But no sooner were they done than the Lady said, "Let me up. If we are discovered like this..."

Reluctantly he rolled away and helped her off the altar. The pale marble was smeared with blood. Jaime wiped it clean with his sleeve, then bent to pick up the candles he had knocked over. Fortunately they had all gone out when they fell.

"This was folly." Cersei pulled her gown straight. "With Father in the castle... Jaime, we must be careful."

"I am sick of being careful. The Targaryens wed brother to sister, why shouldn't we do the same? Marry me, Cersei. Stand up before the realm and say it's me you want. We'll have our own wedding feast, and make another son in place of Tommen."

She drew back. "That's not funny."

"Do you hear me chuckling?"

“Why did you come back?” Cersei demanded. “Why now? Why not before? Father said you went to Tommen at Storms End. You could have kept him safe but where did you go?”

“I travelled.”

“And are you continuing to travel or are you going to stay with me where you belong?”

Jaime paused. “I cannot stay here.”

She pushed him fiercely. “ _Why_?”

“My place is not here,” he responded simply. “I came to see you. I came to see Tommen. I did not come for anybody else. The Others take Joffrey and father. All I want is you. Run away with me where we can make new children to replace Tommen and ‘Cella. Good children, _sweet_ children.”

The idea appealed to her, but she still had Joffrey and her Grandchildren. She had to keep Lucian safe from his wicked little bitch of a mother and sister and had to keep Joffrey safe from them too. She could not choose desire over this, despite how much she wanted to.

“Then I must go,” Jaime said gravely and kissed her slightly once more. “You can tell father I came or you can tell him nothing. I’m finished with this family.”

“Jaime,” she said meekly, but he turned his back on her and laced up his breeches and left.

***

It was on their second night of Winterfell that Ser Garlan requested time alone with Sansa. He took her from dinner and lead her around the grounds, talking to each other and Ser Garlan listened intently to everything that Sansa said about her past in the North. H was a good listener and smiled and laughed courteously at every funny memory she had. He especially liked the tales about Robb and Jon fighting and Arya breaking the rules.

“Has there been any news on my brothers Bran and Rickon?”

The snow had settled for the night and a cold wind spread through their bodies, engulfing them in the season. They stayed close together, attempting to radiate heat between them.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “Your brother Rickon was last seen Skagos, but since then nothing has been reported of him nor your brother Bran.”

“Do tell me if you ever hear anything.”

“Of course,” Garlan promised. “Though I have a present for you. It is not so much a present but something that I have been anticipating showing you since you wrote and told me that you were riding.”

Sansa smiled. “I like surprises.”

“I dare say you’ve had enough to last a lifetime, but I promise that this one is good and you’ll like it. Come with me.”

He lead her through the grounds, across the keep where she had said farewell to Robb and her mother which had seemed longer than Sansa had ever imagined it to feel like. She had been such a silly little girl then: a pretty maid of thirteen with the dream of one day being Queen. She had blushed and laughed at everything Joffrey said to her and mourned when he did not. She felt embarrassed looking back at her life, but envious because Sansa Stark did not face the suffering that Sansa Lannister had to.

Garlan took her to the crypts and an eerie chill passed across Sansa when Garlan opened the door. The crypts had not been destroyed when Theon Greyjoy burned it down, which Sansa was more grateful for than she could fathom. Garlan took a torch from the doorway and lead her through the crypts.

Statues were created of the old Kings of Winter and Sansa walked past them all, studying their faces. She wondered if any of them were watching her and judging her for the mistakes she had made in her life and considered her son a Usurper to sit at Winterfell. She would have given him the Stark name if it was allowed, and she knew Tyrion would allow her if it made her happy. He was kind to her like that.

“This is what I wanted to show you.”

They stopped before the statue of Lyanna Stark, Sansa’s Aunt and beside her stood a new figure Sansa had never seen before. Upon closer inspection, she saw that it was her father Lord Eddard Stark staring back at him with his stone eyes. The figure was his exact height and build though made him look much older. Despite this, all Sansa wanted to do was fall into his eyes and embrace him and apologise for every bad thing she had ever done or said to him.

“His bones were brought to Winterfell and buried here. When I got here I had some stonemasons from Highgarden make three statues: one for your father, one for your mother and the other for Robb Stark, thought the last two bodies were not found.”

Garlan moved the torch so she could see her mother and brother’s face. Her brother stood tall and strong in between his mother and father and a smaller statue of Grey Wind had been constructed too and he stood ready and alert by Robb’s side. He had a hand on his sword and another by his side as if he was reaching for his father. Her mother stood tall and beautiful to Robb’s right with a hand on her son’s arm and a smile etched upon her stony face. Sansa missed them all terribly.

“Thank you,” Sansa whispered. She had never thought to do this otherwise she would have given the orders herself. “I should have done this years ago.”

“Consider it my contribution to Winterfell. I hoped the Gods and the old Lords of Winterfell may accept me more if I did them a kindness. Nobody could find your mother’s body in the river and I never inquired after your brother’s corpse. To be honest I was frightened what Walder Frey might send back.”

Sansa sniffed. “Tyrion wouldn’t allow me to ride to Winterfell. He said it was because it was too cold and the weather too bad, but I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to go to The Twins.”

“Walder Frey is past his one hundredth name day and will likely die in the upcoming weeks. His Great Grandson Edwyn Frey is Lord of the Twins in his name because he is too weak to live.” _Good,_ Sansa thought, _I hope he dies a slow and painful death._ “They say he is worse than Walder Frey.”

“No one is worse than Walder Frey.”

“I agree with you there,” Garlan said solemnly, “would you like for me to leave you?”

Sansa wanted to be alone, and she felt her body go rigid and cold. Instead she shook her head and linked her arm back around Garlan’s.

“No; I have already mourned for their deaths. I do not wish to do it again. Please take me back to my chambers. I am tired.”

It was scarcely night, but the sky was dark and the evening mist spread across Winterfell. Garlan accepted Sansa’s wish and lead her back through the crypts. When Garlan deposited the torch they were plunged in the darkness but they did not need a torch. Sansa had walked these grounds for years and she could not forget them.

“Your husband loves you,” Garlan whispered in the night. “I see it in the way he looks at you and the things he does for you: taking you to Winterfell, letting you name your son after your brother who wanted to kill him and avoiding the Twins though Tyrion’s dislikes sailing.”

Sansa smiled, grateful that Garlan could not see. “Has he? I had scarcely noticed.”

***

Tyrion returned to his chambers to find Sansa sat on their bed. She clutched an old doll in her hands – probably something she found under her bed or in a drawer because the room that they shared had once been Sansa’s. She had replaced the dying flowers in the vase with newly picked flowers. They were not the most beautiful, but they lit the room up regardless.

“Who was that doll from?” Tyrion asked.

“My mother for my eleventh name day. I’m going to give it to Alayne.” It was a hideous doll with its face scratched off and an arm missing. “That was Arya; I had told Septa Mordane that she fed her vegetables to the dogs so she could get pudding.”

Tyrion chuckled. “I did the same to Cersei once, only she threatened to cut _my_ hand off rather than a doll’s. What did Ser Garlan want?”

“He showed me the crypts. He had statues built in honour of my mother, father and brother. It was very kind of him, only I wished I had thought of it.”

Tyrion was surprised. “That is very kind.”

“He’s going to take Robb to the Godswood tomorrow,” Sansa said, “and Leonette is teaching Alayne to play the harp better than I ever could. I was hoping we could take Tyran round the crypts. I don’t want him knowing about the Lannister’s and nothing about the Stark’s.”

“Of course,” Tyrion said softly, “will you tell him everything?”

“Maybe not everything, but I’ll tell him a lot.”

“Would you tell him how Prince Rhaegar stole your Aunt Lyanna?”

Sansa bit her lip. “I always loved that story.”

“You loved a story about a married man abducting a little girl?”

“I never thought he stole her,” Sansa admitted. “Princess Elia was said to be beautiful, and my Aunt Lyanna to be less so but that was the reason why he stole her. I think he must have truly loved my Aunt Lyanna to risk everything for her. I always hoped to have a love like that.”

“Well I’m an old man and I married you: a little girl so I think we’re halfway there.”

She laughed softly. “I don’t think you’re an old man.”

“But you hated me when we wed.”

“Less so than I did Joffrey.”

“And now? What do you think of me now?”

He tried to detect something in her face that told him she loved him. Tyrion would admit privately that he loved his young wife: her beauty and grace and presence always brightened up a room and she was a better wife than he deserved. She looked past his deformity and liked him for who he was. She could have shunned him from their bed throughout their marriage, but she did not and graciously welcome him, thus creating three beautiful children. He didn’t know if she was quite happy, but knew she was better off with Tyrion as a husband than any other suitor whom she might have been offered.

“Ser Garlan says you love me,” there was a hint of teasing in her voice.

“Did he?” Tyrion asked. “And what did you say?”

“I said I wasn’t certain.”

“ _Do_ you love me?”

She put her doll to one side. “I’ve been trying to. Ever since we had Tyran I’ve been trying to. I – I know you’ve protected me. You’ve made me happy, but the last time I was in love – or what I _thought_ was love, it was Joffrey. I don’t want to be made to feel stupid again like that.” He took her cold hand and he kissed it. “I suppose I might love you, but I don’t know what it feels like. Did you love your first wife? Did you ever love Shae?”

If Tyrion thought their marriage would remain without the mention of Tysha or Shae, then he was greatly misunderstood. He sat himself on the bed next to his wife whom positioned herself so that she could face him.

“I loved them both, yes.”

“So... Do you love me?” He did, though he wished he didn’t. She saved him from an answer by looking down at her lap, looking scared as she had done when she was a little girl. “I’m sorry, that was unfair of me.”

“Don’t apologise,” Tyrion said slowly, “you don’t have to apologise to me.”

“I feel as if I owe you,” she confessed. “You didn’t have to marry me – you could have left King’s Landing with Shae but you didn’t. Why?”

“Because I knew I wouldn’t make it pass the city gates before being returned to my father.”

“But you saved my life. Your family would have married me to someone else. Probably somebody horrible or old and cruel. You were never unkind to me, I suppose, and you gave me Winterfell in return. You took me back home.”

“And I intend to stay here for a little while longer. I have no desire to return to the Red Keep. If it wasn’t for Tyran I’d say we live here with Garlan and Leonette. Find good Northerners for our children to marry and keep them in the castle and never let them leave. Live out winter here because it’s the best place to stay in winter and never see the King again.”

She smiled. “Now you say that I never want to go back south.”

“Me neither,” he admitted. “But we have to.”

“I know,” she said meekly.

He planted a kiss on her temple. “Do try and get some sleep.  Know you haven’t slept well in a while.”

“I never sleep well. Not anymore.”

“Well try to,” Tyrion offered. “For me?”

“For you,” she reiterated. “I really hope I can love you one day, Tyrion.”

The way she said his voice: so sweet and pure and filled with what he might detect as love. It was definitely hope and admiration, whatever else it was it was for Sansa’s own.

***

Margaery walked the coast of Blackwater Bay with Alysanne. It was freezing and the shallow depths of the sea for a few metres had frozen. Margaery and her youngest daughter Alysanne skating on the ice, both of them performing the task with such elegance and grace you might think they were professionals. It was tricky in their leather boots and fur coats, but when Alysanne begged her mother to take her to the beach Margaery had accepted because she knew Alyse would never wish to play with her.

“Alayne can jump on the water,” said Alysanne, “but when Robb tried he smashed the ice.”

“Bless him. Was he hurt?”

“No, it just cut his leg a little bit.”

They had twenty guards with them though the Bay was deserted. Margaery thought it unnecessary; she only really needed her brother Loras to protect her. Nobody would dare hurt her. She was the Queen and had done a good job in getting everybody to love her. Especially Joffrey.

She was pleased that Alysanne was different from her sister. Though both of them could start a fight in an empty chamber, Alysanne possessed the childhood innocence her eldest daughter had never once owned. Joff had paid too much time in training her to be a Queen and not enough time teaching Lucian. Lucian was Margaery’s sweet boy, but Alyse and Alysanne were Joffrey’s daughters. Cersei had told her to do a better job, but there was no persuading Joff to leave Alyse alone.

“Look what I can do!” Alysanne twirled around on the ice on her toes as gracefully as a swan. “Mother! You try it!”

Giddily, Margaery twirled around on the ice and performed the pirouette successfully. Hearing her daughter’s laughter, she spun again, then a second time, and then a third time, Alysanne’s joy cheering her on. She was so insistent on having Alysanne her perfect little girl as she had failed with Alyse she would have done anything for her. She spun and she spun until the ice gave way below her and the Queen fell through into the icy water.

From under the surface, Margaery heard her daughter’s screams and the shouts of the guards. Loras got to her first and reached down into the water, submerging his body and pulling the Queen up to the surface, gasping with breath and throwing up salty water out of her mouth until she was sick. One of the guards scooped up Alysanne and ran with her back to the Red Keep all the while she screamed for her mother.

Guards pulled Margaery back to the shore, stripped off as many layers as they could and covered the shivering Queen in them who was vomiting all the food she had eaten as well huge amounts of water. Margaery gazed into her brother’s eyes and fell onto the shore, her eyes closing and mind going blank.


	23. Great-Grandfather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A death haunts King's Landing, Cersei realises Margaery was not the fret she once feared, but wonders who it will be next while Tywin and Lucian bond.

It was unknown what the fever Queen Margaery caught was called or how it killed her, but the Maesters had a faint idea. They had the Queen's room lit with fire and covered her in the thickest fur the Red Keep could find. Her children were not allowed with her; the Maesters worried it might be contagious. According to Cersei, Margaery looked too ill and would frighten her children. Joffrey, however, came to his wife’s side as soon as she was brought back to the castle. It had not mattered really; Margaery was too sick to comprehend that Joffrey was there.

“What happened?” Joffrey demanded of Ser Loras.

“She fell through the ice."

“How long was she under for?”

“Two minutes. It was lucky that she did not drown.”

“Lucky,” Joffrey spat. “Get out of here. Leave me and my wife.” Loras was reluctant to leave. “You too, mother. I wish to speak to my Queen.”

Cersei left with an unwilling Ser Loras who Joffrey had to demand again left his sister. The King turned back to Margaery and placed a hand on his wife’s frozen cheek. Her skin was blue and puffy and she was not beautiful as she had been before the fall. Joffrey didn’t care about that. Her breathing was slow and her chest rose and fell and she spluttered. She was so close to death.

“My Queen,” said Joffrey quietly, “my dearest.”

She said nothing. Her lips were as blue as her skin, her eyes stared past him. He planted a kiss on those lips and almost jumped back. It was as if he kissed ice.

“Don’t leave me,” Joffrey whispered. “Our children still need you. They need their mother. My father left _me_. Don’t leave them.”

There was silence apart from the sound of Margaery’s rugged breath.

“I won’t take any other woman as my bride. I – I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave me. Please don’t go.”

Despite all the fires being lit, her body was frozen. He wondered if her heart was frozen, if it would soon stop and if her lungs would stop her breathing. She was breathing hard and heavy. It looked unlikely she would stop breathing.

“How will our children cope if you died? Lu – Lucian loves you. Alysanne she adores you. Alyse needs you. Do it for them.”

Her lips opened slightly and Joffrey felt her hand moved inside his. He jumped back in anticipation, expecting her to regain the life and beauty she had once had and wrap her arms around his neck and claim she was just teasing him.

“T-T-” he could scarcely comprehend what she was saying. He moved closer to her, his ear next to her lips. “Tomas,” she whispered. “Tomas,” the Queen repeated.

“Tomas,” Joffrey echoed. “Tomas died, Margaery. He – he died years ago.”

“Tomas,” her mouth sounded. “Tomas.”

“I don’t blame you for his death. I know I hit you and said I did, but I don’t. Oh it wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame Alysanne. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, especially not yours. It was the Gods. The Gods took our darling son but I won’t let them take you. Come on Margaery, stay with me.”

“Tomas.”

“I’ll bring him to you later,” Joffrey lied. “You – you can see him and you can hold him. He misses you dearly. Just give him a couple of hours. He’s sleeping peacefully. Let him sleep.”

“Joff,” she whispered. “Tomas.”

“I’ll bring him to you. Margaery just wait and you’ll have him. Margaery you can – Margaery?”

Fear struck Joffrey when she stopped asking for her dead son. Her chest stop rising. She stopped spluttering. There was no life left in her hand.

Joffrey seized her shoulder and began shaking her. “Margaery – Margaery! Margaery wake up! Get up! I order you! In the King’s name get up! Get up! Get up! Get up!”

He screamed loudly and Maester Qyburn rushed in, shoving liquid down her throat. He felt arms enclose him. It was his mother, her fingers locked around his chest. He stood still and stiff, waiting for his wife to come back to him, but she did not. Maester Qyburn looked at him with his big, grey eyes.

“The Queen is dead.”

***

There was a celebration at Winterfell. The hall was packed with men that Sansa did not know, and men she had not seen since she was a child. There was Lord and Lady Ashwood whom Sansa remembered had a handsome son who played the harp better than any man. He had died with Robb at the Twins. The Glover’s of Deepwood Motte came to see her son for his name day, as did Greatjon Umber who picked Sansa up in one arm, swung her around the keep of Winterfell and planted a kiss on her lips, declaring that seeing her was the greatest thing to happen to him in the past decade.

Then there was Lord Karstark, who approached Sansa reluctantly.

“Know that I bare you no grudge for my father’s execution, my Lady. I would swear an oath to you in front of everybody. I live to serve your son now, for the rest of his life.”

“How can we trust you?” Tyrion asked. “Your father and his men murdered my cousins Willem Lannister and Tion Frey. How do I know you would not wish to do the same to my own children?”

“My father was an ignorant man,” Lord Harrion Karstark confessed. “He offered my sister Alys to any man who killed your brother, my Lord. Know that I would never go against my Lord’s orders as my father did. I, Harrion of the House Karstark, do pledge my honour to Ser Robb of House Lannister-”

“Ser Robb of the Houses Lannister _and_ Stark.”

“Yes,” said Lord Harrion quickly, “yes, of course.”

“You are dismissed,” Tyrion noted. “Please, enjoy the pie.”

Tyrion glanced at Sansa. The pair were sat at the head of the Lord’s table as the rest of their liege Lords and Ladies and their families sat below them. Robb sat to Sansa’s right and Tyran and Alayne to Tyrion’s left. Sansa stared past them all, and Tyrion took her hand under the table.

“If it wasn’t for his father killing your cousins, my brother may not have been slain at the Twins.”

“Yes,” Tyrion agreed. “Though sons are not always like their father’s.”

Sansa straightened her back. “I hope for his sake he is not.”

***

The cause of the celebration was Robb’s ninth nameday. He sat merrily with his family, greeting the Lords and Ladies of the north who came to him, offering gifts for his nameday. Some gave him beautiful, extravagant gifts like saddles and one had even given him a dagger that his mother took away and promised to return to him when he was old enough to use it. He did not mind terribly, for he loved the gift the Karstark’s had given him: a beautiful black stallion which he mounted and cantered around the keep for all the Lords and Ladies to cheer for him. He named his horse Rickard, for he had remembered that was the name of his Great-Grandfather who had perished at the hands of the Targaryen’s.

His parents had refused him wine, but when he asked the drunken Greatjon Umber for some beer, he laughed, poured a small amount into the heir of Winterfell’s cup and made him promise not to tell his parents.

Robb gulped it down like his horse drank water. It was warm and sour but Robb enjoyed the taste. He would have asked for another cup but his sister had saw and pulled him away.

“You shouldn’t drink beer!” She exclaimed. “Mother and father will be angry.”

“You won’t tell them,” Robb challenged. “Or I’ll tell them you kissed the little Harclay boy.”

His sister’s face turned a shade to match her hair. “Lucy Lightfoot dared me and I did not even like it; he tasted of onions. Please don’t tell mother and father.”

“I won’t,” Robb said coolly, “if you don’t tell them I had some beer.”

Alayne scoffed and agreed, skipping away from her elder brother back into the hall.

***

The city was in mourning. Joffrey clothed in black, as did his children and mother and Grandfather and good family. When he told his children their mother had died, Lucian and Alysanne started to wail while Alyse stared at her father and lead Alysanne away by the hand and returned her to her chambers. Joffrey stayed with Lucian through the night, listening to his tedious little sniffles and wails and begging for his mother to be returned to him. Joffrey fell asleep before his son did for Lucian did not sleep the night and found himself in his Grandmother’s bed.

_“Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”_

She had thought it had been Margaery, but she had fallen through the ice and into her demise. Cersei could say that she did not care for the little Queen, but it devastated Cersei what her death did to Lucian and Alysanne. Alyse was cold and stubborn and took her father’s seat at court instead of Lord Tywin – who it should have been – until Joffrey returned a few days after Margaery’s death. Her death did not sadden the little Princess.

She looked beautiful again when death took her, no longer cold and rigid but pale and sweet. Lucian wept when he saw her body and Alyse had hit him and told him to stop being a baby. Joffrey stood silent at the front, unable to take his eyes off his wife.

So who would be the Queen to take over? That thought stunned Cersei as Margaery’s body was presented in the sept. Would it be Joffrey’s new bride if he should marry again? Would it be Lucian’s wife if he survived the winter? Winter had been here for ten years and had taken Cersei’s two children and good daughter, though she could not describe Margaery as especially good. It might have been Daenerys Targaryen if she lived or perhaps a Dornish Princess if they lost the fight with Dorne. It had been years but neither side had attacked... Why?

When the subject of marriage reached Joffrey’s ears, he grew angry.

“Margaery is my wife! I promised her I would not wed again.”

“It is not appropriate for you to remain a widower while you are still young and able to produce more heirs.”

“Lucian is my heir,” Joffrey spat. “And Alyse and Alysanne after him. I do not need to wed again for the Realm’s sake, Grandfather. Mother never did.”

Lord Tywin glanced at Cersei. “She should. Then if you will not marry yourself, perhaps a proposition for a bride for your son?”

Joffrey bit his lip. “Who?”

“Your brother’s wife bore a babe two days ago; though it was very early the girl is strong and likely to live. Perhaps you could wed Lucian to her?”

Joffrey considered it. “So who is the heir to Storms End if the girl marries my son and becomes Queen?”

“It would fall to Alyse, though there will be no more Baratheon’s at Storms End. It would be suitable to marry again to produce an heir for Storms End, if not for anything else.”

“Lucian’s second son will sit at Storms End I have decided,” Joffrey snapped. “Or perhaps Tommen’s daughter can marry one of my father’s bastards to keep the name and bloodline.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Varys challenged. “Your Grandfather is incorrect in suggesting your son marries Tommen’s daughter – but what to be done with her? Robert Arryn is yet to wed, and a union with the Vale...”

“Robert Arryn is to supposedly wed my niece Janei as her husband recently died. For Tommen’s daughter, she can stay in the Vale if her mother marries somebody loyal to the crown. Perhaps Martyn Lannister?”

Joffrey mused. “Yes... Write to Uncle Kevan proposing the match.”

“I have an idea,” Cersei spoke up. “What if we marry Tommen’s daughter to Robb?” Tywin studied his daughter. “It would result in the Lannister’s holding Storms End.”

She had been thinking about it for awhile. It would weaken Tyrion if both of his sons were taken away from him and strengthen the Lannister name if they owned Storms End, Casterly Rock _and_ Winterfell.

“We could try and arrange the match,” Tywin said slowly. “Only that Robb is nine years the girl’s senior. He may not wish to wait that long to wed.”

“It is not a matter of what he _wants_ , it is what he will do. The sooner we have those two boys in their respected houses the better. I want Tyran kept away from my Alyse; she is too good for him.”

“Tyran is betrothed,” Tywin reminded. “To Queen Margaery’s niece.”

Joffrey winced. “Do not speak her name.”

“Joffrey,” Cersei soothed, taking her son’s hand. “It’s alright.”

He batted his mother’s hand away as soon as he took it. “I blame you. If you hadn’t refused Margaery’s wish to go to Highgarden to visit her sickly Grandmother then she would still be alive. I should have your head.”

“Then take it, for you and I both know that once I am dead your Kingdom will fall.”

“You’re nothing,” spat the Grandson. “I am the King.”

“A King who just lost his wife and who should wed again soon while he is still young.”

“I will not marry as long as you remain unwed. I’m the King and I can do as I like,” the King snarled. “Court is dismissed. Make any necessary preparations you desire, but leave me and my children out of it. If I hear one more proposition of me marrying again than I’ll send you back to Casterly Rock.”

Tywin curtly nodded. “Your Grace.”

***

It had been a year since Queen Margaery died, and on the anniversary, Princess Alyse stared at herself in the reflection of the frozen water.

She had taken Margaery’s position as a mother to Alysanne and Lucian. She taught Alysanne to play instruments and songs, and gave the necessary instructions to Lucian on how to be King because their father wouldn’t. She had grown grave in the year, seldom smiling, the ghost of her mother haunting her. She hated her mother for leaving her. She didn’t want to be without her.

Everybody complimented her, remarking how much Alyse looked like her. Her mother had been a silly fool; Alyse would not make the same mistake. The Queen had loved her children too much and that had caused an issue, trying too hard to please her daughter had gotten her frozen from the inside.

Alyse was eleven-years-old and wiser beyond her years.

“Alyse,” her father called on her before she would break her fast. Her maids were styling her hair and stopped, bowing to the King. “Where is your brother?”

She stared her father in the eye. “Where do you think?”

“Blackwater,” Joffrey muttered.

“Make sure he stays away from the water,” said Alyse derisively, “we don’t want any more accidents.”

“Watch your tongue,” Joffrey snapped. “Are you sitting court?”

“I have nothing better to do. How long is it?”

“Not long. Five hours, maybe.”

“Listening to farmers whine about their cattle dying and expecting us to be able to do something about it? Father, I advise you to close court today. It will not make you look weak, despite what Great-Grandfather says. Or let him sit court today, you do not have to burden yourself.”

Joffrey stepped across the room. Alyse stood on a wooden box which she used only when her ladies were dressing her. He placed a hand on her golden hair fingered her blonde curls.

“Lord Tywin shall sit court today. I will make plans to ride to the sept. Shall you join me?”

Alyse nodded. “I shall. When do Tyrion and Sansa return from Winterfell?”

“I don’t know. The longer they are gone the better. You don’t miss them, do you?”

“No,” Alyse lied automatically. “Not at all.”

Joffrey studied her then left through the door.

She did not miss her Aunt Sansa nor Uncle Tyrion, and neither Robb or Alayne. She missed Tyran. He would have comforted her at her mother’s death. Everybody said she had been so strong this past year, but inside she wanted to crumble and break. Tyran could have helped her. She had been so strong for Alysanne and Lucian and for her father to make him proud, but in consequence had nobody to be strong for her. Tyran would have held her as she wept, shared her bed and made her feel better. But he was hundreds of leagues away and the news of her mother’s death had only reached him in the past few months. He had not written to her, though she had written to him twice.

Had he found somebody better than her up north? _No, that’s impossible;_ the Princess thought to herself, _there is no one better than me._

***

She never wanted to leave Winterfell. Though the winter had taken a turn for the worst and they could not leave the castle walls without snow covering them like a fence, the time spent inside the castle walls was better than she had ever spent in the Red Keep, with Tyran and Robb being taught to fight by Garlan in the hall and Alayne singing on the harp with Lady Leonette while Tyrion and Sansa watched on fondly, it reminded her of the time she spent with her brothers and sister before everything went wrong.

Then it all went wrong again when Tyrion received the letter from his father. The first letter they received had been concerning Queen Margaery’s death, and Winterfell had gone into mourning. The second letter was Lord Tywin demanding their return to King’s Landing within the year.

“We always knew we would have to go home,” Tyrion reasoned. “We couldn’t stay here forever.”

“King’s Landing will never be home. Winterfell will be my home.”

“We will return here soon,” Tyrion said, “I will make sure we do.”

What power did Tyrion have over his father though, truly? Sansa was hoping that the sixty-nine-year-old Lord to Casterly Rock would die soon and stop controlling their actions. Walder Frey had lived to one hundred and one. Sansa and Tyrion both hoped the same would not be said for Tywin.

***

Lucian didn’t want to be King. When he told his father this he hit him square the jaw, leaving him with a bruise and a cut visible for a week. Lucian was ordered to tell people he had fallen from his horse. When Lucian _openly_ defied his father, the King had Meryn Trant beat him, leaving the little Prince with multiple cuts and bruises. He had ran to Alyse crying, and she had slapped him and told him to grow up, and Alysanne dared not say anything to her little brother in case the King beat her too. He might have gone to Aunt Sansa and Uncle Tyrion if they were still in King’s Landing, but they were not and he was frightened that his Grandmother would tell the King of his cowardice and he’d be beaten again. Instead, Lucian crawled into bed, pulled the bear skin covers around his body and cried.

He had cried a lot since his mother died; he had nobody to protect him from his wicked father. The King often told Lucian he wished he would be more like Alyse and less of a craven, threatening to send him to the wall if he did not obey his father. One day, he prayed in the sept that his mother would be traded for his father. Lord Tywin had overheard him and had not beaten Lucian as he expected, but instead invited him to his solar and gave him some iced milk.

“I know you miss your mother,” said Tywin gravely, “and your father only wants the best for you.”

Lucian dared not disagree in fear of what Lord Tywin would do. Tyran had accidently revealed to the Prince that the Mountain had almost hit him on orders from the Hand. Everybody seemed to use violence as their way of solving problems.

“I want her back,” Lucian sniffed. “Why did she have to leave me?”

“It was unfair,” Tywin agreed. “But there are still plenty of other people who love you.”

“Like who?”

He paused. “There’s your sisters-”

“-All Alyse does it hit me and call me a stupid little boy and Alysanne is always so cruel to me. She never used to be.”

“Your Grandmother loves you.” Lucian didn’t disagree, but he was frightened of his Grandmother now too. “And I am sure your father does in his own way.”

“He doesn’t love me,” Lucian muttered. “He says he wishes Alyse could be Queen and that I was never born. He did say it! He said it after mother died!”

“He was upset.”

“I’m upset and he calls me weak for crying.”

“Because Princes don’t cry,” Tywin stated.

“Well I do.”

Tywin eyed his future King. “Would you care for a lemon cake?”

“Aunt Sansa loves those.”

“Would you care for one?”

“I prefer apple cakes.”

“I do not have apple cakes.”

“But I want apple cakes.”

“You seem to want everything you cannot have. Last week you asked for one of the Dragon Queen’s dragons. The other week you asked for a red horse.”

“We’re rich. We can afford one of her dragons.”

“There are only two remaining and one of them is missing. The other is in Dorne. What do you want me to do, send my men to Dorne – who of which we are close to war with – and ask for one of the dragons because the future King wants one?”

Lucian chewed his lip. “But can I have a red horse then?”

“No.”

“Apple cakes?”

“ _No_.”

Lucian crossed his arms. “I thought being a Prince means I can do anything that I want, but I just get turned down by everyone! I asked father if I could have another piece of apple pie yesterday and he poured salt over it and gave it to me. I don’t want salt with my apple pie, Grandfather.”

“I do not suppose anybody does.”

“When does Aunt Sansa and Uncle Tyrion come back?”

“They said they would be leaving Winterfell at the end of the year. They will return by the end of the New Year. Why?”

The little Prince shrugged. “I miss them.”

“Why?”

“Aunt Sansa is always kind to me and Uncle Tyrion makes me laugh. Robb is my best friend and I love Alayne.”

“You love Alayne?”

Nodding: “Yes.”

“You always want what you cannot have. You cannot marry her.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to marry her, but Alyse says when you really, really, really like someone and you miss them when they leave you then you love them.” Tywin wondered if there was more depth into what his sister told him than what Prince Lucian detected. “Father doesn’t love me. He says he wishes I died instead of Alysanne’s twin.”

“He did not mean it.”

“He did; he hates me. I hate him.”

“No you do not.”

“Yes I do,” said Lucian defiantly, “I hate my father. I hate the King!”

Tywin blinked at his Great-Grandson, whom at his words, drew in on himself, tucking his knees underneath his chin and began to cry.

“Please don’t hit me.”

“I am not going to hit you, but do not say you hate your father again. Understood?”

“Yes... What do I call you?” Tywin looked puzzled. “Do I call you Great-Grandfather? I don’t want to; it’s too long.”

“You can call me Grandfather; that is what Tyran calls me.”

“I’ll call you Grandfather. Can I go now?”

He did not need Tywin’s approval to be dismissed, but Tywin gave it anyway. The golden haired Prince drained his ice milk, grabbed a lemon cake and skipped out of the room. Out of any child Lord Tywin could have imagined Joffrey having, Prince Lucian was a shock to the Realm.

He would make a good King.


	24. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb shows the wolf blood within him, Tyran receives a gift, Lucian and Joffrey develop a mutual dislike while Alysanne makes a name for herself.

There was no gathering when the Lannister’s returned to King’s Landing. Their ship was docked off the coast of Blackwater Bay and they rode the rest of the route on horseback. It was warmer in the south than it had been in the north, but the winter storms would soon engulf the capital.

When they dismounted their horses, they were all cold and wet and tired. All Tyrion required was a hot bath and he would be as ready as he’d ever be to face his family, though he barely entered the Red Keep when the King descended the stairs, a broad grin on his face.

“Uncle! Aunt! So glad your voyage here was not too... _Treacherous_.” Torturously, he embraced both Sansa and Tyrion, planting kisses on Sansa’s mouth and on Tyrion’s cheek. “Children, what is it like to stand taller than your father?” Even little Alayne stood a few inches taller than her father. “You haven't become northern savages while you've been to Winterfel, have you?"

Tyrion grabbed the back of Robb’s fur cloak to pull him away from the King. The middle Lannister child had a quick temper and sharp tongue: his wolf blood.

“We offer our condolences for Margaery,” said Robb through gritted teeth. “How you must have wept for her.”

“It has been almost two years, Tyran-”

“ _Robb_. I am Robb. It is not hard to tell us apart; Tyran is the tall, golden haired one and I am the handsome one.”

Joffrey glanced at Alayne. “Well I thought she was the handsome one.”

Alayne knew her courtesies as well as her mother, and she curtsied for the King despite the nature of his compliment. “Thank you, your Grace.”

“My Hand suggests I wed again while I am still young – perhaps I’ll take your daughter,” Joffrey placed a warm finger on Alayne’s cold chin, pulling her face upwards. “You are much prettier than your mother when was young. Maybe I will wed you.”

“Over my dead body,” Tyrion snarled through gritted teeth and knocked the King’s hand away. “If you place one finger on my daughter-”

“-Perhaps I’ll place a finger _up_ your daughter, and we’ll see-”

It was not Tyrion who had struck the King, for he would have had difficulty reaching him, but the powerful and fierce, angry Robb Lannister had backhandedly slapped King Joffrey which stunned the family.

“You idiot,” Tyran snarled at his brother.

Joffrey’s guards turned on Robb and seized him, all the while Joffrey screaming at them to take his head and twelve-year-old Robb battled against the firm hold of the guards, swearing he’d slit the King’s throat.

This continued for a few minutes. Every time a blade was put on Robb, his brother or Tyrion would attack the guard who held it to him. Sansa had already been held back by the guard, screaming for Joffrey to have mercy on her son as she had once begged him to have on her father. Joffrey never made idle threats.

It wasn’t until the presence of Lord Tywin that the fighting ceased. He ordered for Sansa to be released and for Tyrion and Tyran to stop attacking the guards and for the King to stop ordering death on his own cousin. Tywin stood between them all and stared at his youngest nephew.

“They told me you were as wild as a wolf while you were north butI did not believe them. Perhaps I should have given you more lessons on behaviour instead of teaching your brother the necessities on being a Lord. Now unhand Ser Robb, and if you attack the King, I shall have you severely punished.” Robb was released as Lord Tywin commanded. “You are a Lannister. Lannister’s don’t act like a pack of wild dogs.”

“I am a Stark of Winterfell,” Robb spat at his Grandfather. “I am no Lannister and I am no dog.”

The auburn haired Ser marched away from his family down the corridor, and the King left too, muttering and cursing up the staircase he had previously descended. Tywin turned to Tyran and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Shall we go to my solar?”

Tyran remembered that his father had told him about standing up against Tywin. He did not have to learn if he did not want to. Tyran was a different boy than the one who had left King’s Landing.

“No thank you Grandfather; I want a bath first.”

“Tomorrow then.” He did not wish to, but accepted it anyway. “I shall walk you to your chambers.”

Tyrion was still slow with breath, furious at the King, had made an awful remark about Alayne and nothing had been done except for a slap from his son and threats of murder. Tyrion turned to his daughter, pale with fright or worry, her father couldn't tell.

“If the King ever touches you, tell me.”

“Why what will you do?”

“I will make sure he never touches you again.”

Alayne smiled. “It was brave how Robb stood up for me.”

“It was foolish,” Sansa countered. “The King would have killed him.”

“But – but he _threatened_ me.”

“He did not mean it,” Sansa lied.

Alayne looked down at the floor the same way her mother would do if she was distressed. “Tyran didn’t try and protect me. Only Robb did.”

“Because Tyran knew he would get into trouble. Tyran possess awareness, something that Robb has failed to learn.”

“He still protected me.”

“Yes,” Tyrion agreed. “But it was a foolish thing for him to do.”

***

Robb had protected Alayne from the King, so why couldn’t one of Lucian's sisters do the same for him?

Alayne told him bitterly that Tyran had stood aside and did nothing, while Robb had punched the King and battled against the guards like a true knight in stories. It made Lucian jealous. She had a brother who would protect her, a father that loved her and a mother who was still alive. Lucian was invisible to his father, only good for being the next King. He didn’t want to be King, but being King would be more bearable if he had a Queen.

He asked Alayne and she giggled. “Do you love me?”

“As a friend.”

She giggled again. “If we got married, we’d have to... Kiss!”

“Have you ever kissed anybody?”

She nodded. “Have you?”

“No. Father doesn’t let me talk to girls.”

“You can always kiss boys.”

“Father says it’s disgusting.”

“Kissing boys is good,” Alayne said, “but they smell.”

“I don’t smell!”

“Well northern boys do. Then they run off and tell their friends and they laugh at you and embarrass you. Robb kissed lots of girls when we were at Winterfell. Tyran didn’t even talk to one.”

“Does he prefer boys?”

“He prefers your sister.”

The Prince laughed and he pulled himself across his bed so that he lay beside Alayne on his pillow instead of lying at her feet.

“I’m pleased you’re back. It’s been horrible without you.”

She gave him a sweet smile. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“I miss her. It’s nearly been two years. When someone mentions her to father he gets angry and Alyse never talks about it, it’s like she’s forgotten that she has a mother. And Alysanne never leaves her room and when she does she’s being horrible to people with Alyse. I wish your father was my father. I wish I was part of your family.”

“You could be if Tyran wed Alyse. Then we’d be brother and sister and you’d never have to see your father again! Ooh and you could come to Winterfell with us again! You’d love it!”

Lucian smiled at the prospect. He favoured Lord Tyrion over his own father; he was funny and loving and brave. Sansa, however, would never be his mother. Lucian adored his deceased mother, had cried for days after her death and still did two years on. Why did she have to die? He wished Sansa would die instead, but that was wicked for him to think so. But Lucian wanted his mother back so she could hug him and kiss him and keep him safe from his father. Now that the Queen was dead, the King was more frequent with his punishments. Tyrion never struck his children, he also never wished them dead.

***

Joffrey had not meant to neglect Lucian his whole life. He had thought if he kept his distance Lucian would become his own man: strong and independent. But he had been made weak by the Gods and traumatised by his mother’s death. He was not suitable to be King.

The King knew his son hated him and he didn’t like it. He had tried taking him hunting, but Lucian whimpered when his father killed a deer. They had gone riding together but Lucian had stayed silent, shivering in the cold so Joffrey had attempted at having his son sit with him at court, but that had only made his son dislike him more. Joffrey would have given up if it had not been for his own mother constantly reminding him how shit Joffrey felt at his father’s neglect. Alyse and Alysanne were definitely not neglected by their father and Joffrey knew they loved him to an extent, but there was a constant look of loathing in his son’s eyes whenever they were together. It was always present no matter how many times Joffrey tried to hit him out of it.

Lucian really did not want to be King. It would be unsurprising if he named Alyse Queen instead of himself and he would go and sit at Storms End or wherever his wife’s loyalty lay. He had once threatened to take the black, but the cold frightened Lucian away from that idea. He was weak. He would not live to be King.

So Joffrey supped with his daughters for the fifth time that week while his heir dined with Tyrion and Sansa.

***

On Tyran’s name day, Tywin presented him with a gift.

The Hand had summoned his Grandson to his solar in the evening. Tyran expected it to be another lesson and turned up reluctantly after Lord Tywin’s fifth request was made. The now adolescent boy slumped down in his Grandfather’s chair, staring at him.

“You could at least feign your pleasure to see me."

“Sorry Grandfather. Do you want me to get my quill?”

“This is not a lesson, Tyran. I have a nameday present for you.”

“But you’ve already given me my nameday present, Grandfather.”

“I could not give you this in front of everybody. This is private.”

Lord Tywin reached under his desk and presented his Grandson with something that caused him to be astonished. He gazed at the sword before touching it, considering it to be too precious for human handling. The sheath was encrusted with rubies and when Tyran took it out of the case, it was as beautiful as he could remember his Uncle Jaime wielding it. The silver steel gleamed in the candlelight and the light danced off the rubies on the handle, the pommel having a golden lion with gleaming red eyes.

“Valyrian Steel,” Tywin said slowly, “the first in our family. It was returned to us when Prince Tommen died. I thought it better if it was given to you: my heir.”

Tyran was in awe. "Grandfather... Thank you."

“You are big enough for it at three-and-ten. This is a very honoured sword and you must treat it with respect. It is not a toy. It is yours to pass down to your sons with Lady Helena and their sons after them. You should give it a powerful name, something the families of the men you kill will remember.”

Tyran stared at his Grandfather. “I’m not going to kill anybody.”

“Most boys think that when they are your age, but it changes when they are older.”

“I don’t want to kill anybody, Grandfather. I don’t want to give my sword a dangerous name.”

“This sword will be carried down in History. Prince Tommen made a foolish mistake in calling it Myrcella, and he died with it in his hands. You will not give my family’s sword a pathetic name to be mocked for generations."

“Uncle Jaime had a sword called Quickblade once.”

“Yes he did,” Tywin agreed. “Quickblade you can name it.”

“Will Robb ever have a sword like this?”

“Not a Valyrian Steel sword, no, and not from me neither.”

“He’s going to be very jealous,” Tyran smiled at the thought. “Can I show him?”

“Yes,” Tywin said tiresomely.

“Thank you for the sword, Grandfather. I will look after it. I won’t let anybody else play with it.”

“Nor will you play with it. Need I remind you that it is not a toy? I want to hear that you have been practicing it, and in a few years time you will be able to yield it like a true Knight.”

“Yes Grandfather, I will. Thank you.”

***

Quickblade had been forged by her father’s Greatsword Ice. She would never have known it by looking at it. The beauty of Ice had been replaced by Lannister colours and black and gold and ruby embellishments. There was a certain beauty about it that Ice had not possessed; maybe it was the relief that the Stark Greatsword had gone to a boy with northern blood.

“It should be _mine_ ,” Robb moaned. “ _I’m_ Lord to Winterfell and this was our Grandfather’s sword.”

“Now it is _mine_.”

“Has it got a name?” Tyrion interrupted, hasty to avoid a brawl.

“Quickblade.”

“Quickblade,” Robb spat. “Such a western name. If it was mine, I’d honour it and call it Ice.”

“Well it’s not your sword, is it?”

“I was only saying,” Robb muttered. Then he looked at his father. “Will you get me a sword for my thirteenth nameday?”

“Maybe,” Tyrion said, “though you were just given a dagger early for your twelfth.”

“That’s not a sword though and it’s not fair. Tyran got a ship when he was little and he never even uses it, _and_ he got a horse and now he’s got a sword, all from Grandfather. He never gets me anything.”

“That’s not true,” Sansa reminded. “Lord Tywin brought you the leather saddle for Montague last nameday, and I am sure he has something important for your thirteenth.”

Robb scowled. “No he won’t. He only treats Tyran better because he’s going to inherit Casterly Rock. I’d rather _die_ than inherit it.”

“Then why are you so jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” yelled the lesser looking sibling. “You’re a cunt.”

***

“Say it again,” Tyran dared, jumping off his chair.

Copying his brother’s actions: “You’re a cunt.”

“Robb!”

Tyrion seized hold of his younger son as he had done when he faced off with King Joffrey. He pulled him round to face him and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“What have I told you about cursing? Apologise to your brother.”

“No. He has his head so far up Grandfather’s arse he could taste the gold he shits.”

“Now that’s enough,” Sansa warned. “Go to your chambers. You will not eat supper with us tonight.”

“Good,” Robb snapped. He released his father’s hand and passed Tyran, sticking his hand out, he pushed Quickblade to the ground, causing a terrible CLANG to ring through everybody’s ears while Robb rushed out the room. “Your sword has a shit name.”

And with that, he slammed the door.

***

Prince Lucian and Robb walked together the following morning around the snowy grounds of the Red Keep. Both of them struggled to walk through and they had a host of five guards for the two boys in case a similar accident that had happened to Queen Margaery happened to one of the boys – mostly Prince Lucian they were afraid it would happen to. Though the weather was horrible and the snow beat against them harder than a stone wall, it was good to walk in the snow because it was hard for anybody else to hear your conversation.

“I wish I could speak like that,” Prince Lucian sighed, his voice slightly muffled by the layers of fur his father had insisted he wore before venturing out that morning. “Father would have beaten me for speaking like that to Alyse.”

“Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?” Proposed the heir to Winterfell.

“Because he’ll beat me. Because he’ll send me away from King’s Landing: away from you and Alayne and my family. I don’t want to anger him.”

Robb mused on his words, and he picked the hem of his cloak sleeve. “I’d hate to be a Prince - especially with _your_ father.”

“I’d swap places with you any day,” Lucian revealed. “Your parents love you and your brother and sister do too. Mother loved me, but now she’s gone and father... I don’t know if father likes me or if he tolerates me. Alyse is jealous because she wants to be Queen and knows she’ll do a better job and Alysanne hasn’t been the same since she saw mother fall. It would have been better if your family had been here. And then there was everything with Uncle Tommen and we had to go into mourning. It was all we ever did was mourn while you were away. Mourn, mourn and be sad. Father said I’ll be the next to die.”

“That’s horrible,” stated Robb.

“He said I was born so small he was shocked I survived eleven years of winter.”

Prince Lucian was wiser beyond his eleven years of life and his vocabulary ranged like an adult’s. It was not so dissimilar to Tyran, Robb noticed. Both of them were first born sons and strived to impress. Prince Lucian had one of the greatest Maester’s teaching him to read and write and everything else while Tyran had Lord Tywin. Alayne and Robb were given the Grand Maester Qyburn to teach them, and now he was getting old and slow.

***

Princess Alysanne took court with her father, taking the wooden seat beside his throne on his right with her sister Alyse on his left. Alyse and Alysanne looked almost like twins – many men had mistaken them to be so. Alysanne stood as tall at twelve as Alyse did at thirteen, their golden hair hanging to their waist, always pinned the same and dressed in identical colours to their father’s request.

A man stood before them of raping a young woman because her brother stole a chicken. The man called it justice as did the King, but his youngest daughter, the quieter Princess Alysanne, spoke out.

“So her brother stole you chicken, is that what you are saying?”

The old man was dressed in blood and mud stained rags, his grey hair had almost disappeared and he walked barefoot. His voice was nasally and brittle and his eyes wandered between the two Princesses.

“Yes, your Grace.”

Alysanne sat upright in her chair. “So instead of demanding the animal back, you raped his sister?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“And how is that justice? Justice would be stealing their chicken. Justice would be stealing something of similar value off her brother.”

“His sister _is_ the same value of a chicken, your Grace.”

The court sniggered, as did Princess Alyse and the King. Princess Alyse began to speak, to perhaps let off the rapist because he had made her laugh. Her elder sister liked to laugh, and though Alysanne did too, she did not like it to be at her expense or at the punch line of raping a young woman.

“Are you a strong believer of justice?” asked Princess Alysanne.

“Of course, your Grace.”

Alysanne took a long pause before continuing her punishment, stealing a glance at her father. “Then you shall suffer the same punishment. You will be taken by Ser Gregor Clegane and beaten for your crimes until the young lady and her brother say he can stop. Justice would be having you raped, but that is monstrous. If you could have the victims in question summoned to court to oversee the beating immediately, that would be better. For now, you shall stay in the dungeons.”

“I went to court for justice for my chicken!”

“You got your justice,” Alysanne retorted. “And so will she. Take him away, Ser Meryn, Ser Osmund.”

Ser Meryn and Ser Osmund took the old man kicking and screaming from the court, and the King turned to his youngest daughter.

“Perhaps I underestimated your talent for sitting court. You are not as weak as I initially believed you to be."

“Not weak,” Alysanne agreed. “Just.”

King's and Queen's often got titles with their throne. Before Alysanne's time, there had been King Jaehaerys The Conciliator, Mad King Aerys, King Robert the Whoremonger King or Usurper. Her own father was King Joffrey the Illborn (though that was seldom uttered at court). Within time, her brother and sister would gain their name, but through the act of the justice for the chicken, the middle child to King Joffrey and Queen Margaery became Princess Alysanne the Just.


	25. What was never Taught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alysanne is confused, Tyran gives into exploration and proves to be the worst at keeping secrets and two girls bleed.

Princess Alysanne had been told many a time that she was so much like her mother. According to the southron men and women who told her, she looked like Queen Margaery and was sweet and kind like her too. Alysanne knew they were lies; she was not sweet and kind like her mother. The Princess knew she had a wicked streak in her which magnified when in the company of her sister and father. Her mother had been brave too while Alysanne was not. Alysanne was too cowardly to admit to herself and others who she truly was.

Alysanne couldn’t relate to the women of court when they gushed about men. She didn’t find the same men attractive as her sister or Alayne or many of the other women at court, and Alysanne couldn’t figure out why that was. The Princess hoped the answer was not what she feared it would be. Her father called them degenerates; their acts were punishable by death. He had made that law after the Queen died such a time ago... Would he sentence his own daughter to death if he knew what she feared she would become?

Her own Uncle Ser Loras... No, she could not mention it to him. Her handmaidens worked for Lady Cersei, if she mentioned anything to just one of them Alysanne couldn’t bear the shame that would be thrust upon her and perhaps even the sentence. Alysanne just wanted help, but in a world like this there was nobody she could ask for help.

Then one day, she found herself sat at court and watched as two women were dragged to court for the same preferences Alysanne suspected she had, and watched as her father sent the orders to have the women penetrated until they began to enjoy it. He said it was a cure, a second chance of becoming _normal_ when Alysanne asked why he had done it. _Is that what he’ll do to me?_ Alysanne wondered. _His own daughter_?

***

It was a cold morning, but Princess Alyse's chambers in one of the towers of the Red Keep was well heated by the hearth with a mounting pile of logs placed onto the fire every few hours. In that chamber, the Princess and Ser Tyran lounged on the bed playing a  board game known as Cyvasse, though neither of them knew how to play according to the rules. Alyse never played by the rules in life or Cyvasse and retold the tale to Tyran about how her sister got her nickname, and the ones she and Lucian were given soon after.

“So they call Alysanne: Alysanne the Just,” Tyran repeated. “What do they call you?”

Her brown eyes flashed with excitement. “Alyse the Wicked.”

“No they don’t,” though Tyran knew it to be true. “You’re not wicked.”

“I don’t mind. In the songs they always say I punish the bad and Alysanne defends the good. They say Lucian sits at the back, brushing his hair and singing tunes. He reminds them all of Prince Rhaegar, and we all know how he turned out.”

“Prince Lucian the Sweet,” Tyran recited. “Princess Alysanne the Just and Princess Alyse the Wicked.”

“The Baratheon children.”

“You’re more Lannister than Baratheon.”

“I will be when we wed.”

Tyran smiled softly, and he allowed his cousin to crawl across the silk bedding and plant a kiss on his plump, red lips. The future Lord of the West knew that he was more likely to marry his brother than he would the Princess. In an ideal world, he would marry Alyse and they’d have many beautiful, happy, plump, golden haired children who would be safe and sound. But in a few years, Tyran would marry Helena and Alyse would marry a High Lord’s son and have his children and they’d be taken away from each other.

“We could do it,” Alyse whispered, leaning against him. “We could sneak away and be married by a Septon, and when it came to you wedding Helena, we’d announce to the whole fucking court that you and I are married and consummated it.”

Tyran smiled, curling Alyse’s hair with his finger. “I’d love that.”

“Do you touch yourself to me?”

He blinked at her. “What?”

“Do you touch yourself to me?”

Tyran flushed the colour of Alyse’s gown: the colour of the Lannister backdrop where the golden lion stood ferociously. Grandfather had told Tyran it was a sin to touch himself. Robb said it was the best thing he could ever do. He would not dare mention it to his Maester, though sometimes at night he had the urge to do it. Tyran seldom did it; too embarrassed.

“I walked in on Lucian,” she recalled. “There he was, lying in bed, groaning and moaning and playing with his little cock. It was very funny. So do you?”

“Do I what?”

Alyse sat up in exasperation. “ _Touch_ yourself to me?” He looked down at his lap – a similar trait he shared with his mother when he was nervous, and Alyse let out a shrill laugh. “You do. You pervert you do!” But she did not sound angry. “Oh Tyran... What do you imagine me doing?”

She was taunting him as he had seen her taunt other children so many times. “What – I – don’t – no – nothing.”

She grabbed his hand and placed it to her breast. A jolt of shock spread through his body. He wanted to move his hand but neither his body nor Alyse’s hand would let him.

“I want you,” she purred.

“We’re too young,” he said in deep breaths.

“No we’re not,” she countered. “People get married this age and are expected to consummate the marriage; I asked father last night. Please Tyran. I love you. Say you love me and I’ll have you.”

He gulped. The feeling of Alyse’s breast underneath her dress had already made him hard, and when she put her hand to it, Tyran found himself grabbing Alyse by the neck and pushing her down on the bed, him straddling her.

“You say I’m a lion,” she whispered in his ear as she held onto the back of his golden curled head. “Then make me roar.”

***

Tyran didn’t know why he bedded her. He knew that he loved her more than he could ever fathom and he knew the feelings were reciprocated. The warmth of Alyse’s naked body as she lay against him on the cold bed, the sound of her breathing and the rise and fall of her well developed chest made him love her more. She had bled on the bed, Tyran noticed, and he brought it to attention.

“I’ll say my Moon Blood started early,” she smiled. “I’ll tell them whatever the fuck I want. Kiss me Tyran. Never leave me.” He did as his Princess commanded. “Walk the grounds with me.”

“Don’t you ache? Aren’t you tired?”

She flexed her fingers. “A little, but I would love a walk.”

Princess Alyse and Ser Tyran got dressed, both of them giggling like little children as they fumbled with corsets and breeches, laces and strings until they were dressed and did not look like they had given themselves to each other. Alyse took Tyran’s arm and lead him out the door, and he almost froze when he saw the guards at the door.

 _What if they had heard them?_ Alyse had yelled at her climax and they had thrown the bed against the wall a few times. What if they heard their laughing or them proclaiming their love for each other? Alyse saw his hesitation and steered him out of the way and whispered in his ear.

“Who would believe them?”

“Everyone; I’m a terrible liar.”

“Well I am not _and_ I’m a Princess. They wouldn’t dare argue with a Princess or claim she bedded her cousin.” Tyran looked over his shoulder, frightened that someone would hear them. “Relax. You’re acting like what we did was wrong.”

But it was wrong, wasn’t it?

***

Lord Tywin could sense there was something not right about his Grandson at that afternoon’s lesson. He was flushed and jumpy and made plenty of mistakes on his lessons that he had been so talented at before. Every time there was a noise outside, he jumped up and his hand reached for the knife in his belt. Tywin noticed the marks on his neck and his swollen lip. He had seen it on his children all too many times.

“Lesson is over for today, but that does not mean you can leave. There is something troubling you, Tyran. What is it?”

***

Lord Tywin had never been one to show much care to him before unless it was concerning Casterly Rock. When he asked Tyran, he lashed his body around, gripping the side of the chair. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide but he couldn’t.

“N-Nothing Grandfather.”

“You are lying to me. What have I told you about lying to me?”

“That I will be punished.”

Tywin nodded. “Now I will not ask you again. What is the matter with you? Would you like me to hazard a guess?”

“No Grandfather. I – I did a bad thing.”

“Elaborate.” Lord Tywin sighed. 

“I kissed the Princess.”

***

Lord Tywin was not surprised. Princess Alyse and Tyran were close friends. It was not unlikely that they would kiss once – as long as it was only once. It would explain the swollen lip and perhaps the marks on his neck were due to childish exploration, as long as they were the only marks on his body.

“Make sure you do not do it again; you are to wed Lady Helena. Would you like her to kiss other boys?”

He did not really care, Tywin knew that, but Tyran played the dutiful betrothed boy and shook his head. “No Grandfather.”

“Return to your chambers and you will not do such a thing again.”

“Please don’t tell the King.”

“I will not if you turn your attention away from the Princess and to your betrothed; she is very fond of you, I have been told, and it is time you took fondness with her.”

“I will Grandfather.”

Tywin nodded to incline his dismissal, but he shook his head once Tyran had left his solar.

_He always has been a terrible liar._

***

They supped together as usual as a family of course, with Prince Lucian at their company as was so often the case. Robb would often lead the conversation and argue with his brother or sister and their mother would cut in. After dinner, cakes would be brought in and they would all always go for the sweets: the custard pastries, the lemon cakes, apple pies and cherry bites. After a couple of minutes they would be gone and Sansa would sometimes walk the grounds with Alayne or watch her paint or sew, and Tyrion and their sons might join them or play cards or just talk.

Though it was a usual day, Tyrion detected how solemn his eldest son was, and when dinner was cleared away, Tyran nibbled at an apple pie and touched nothing else. Sansa had caught onto it too, sharing a look with Tyrion and took both Robb and Alayne from the room, leaving the father and eldest son.

Once they had gone, Tyrion paused for a few moments before pressing Tyran into conversation. The boy stared down at his lap the same way his mother would do when she was nervous or scared. He was fiddling with the chair arm when Tyrion spoke.

“Care for a lemon cake?” He held out the tray. “Have one.”

“No thank you.”

Tyran, like his mother, used courtesies as his armour rather than violence. Whenever Tyran sparred in the yard, he would always ensure his opponent was safe even if he had been defeated.

“I know you and I are not as close as Robb and I,” Tyrion admitted. “And I resent that. It does not mean I love him more than you; I love you both equally. If I am honest, it gave me more joy to see you pulled from your mother than it did Robb because it gave us safety and a place to call home and be safe. Now, will you tell me what is the matter?”

Tyran glanced up at his little father. “I kissed Alyse.”

“Oh.” Tyrion got up from the chair and crossed the room.

“Are you mad with me?”

“Gods no,” replied his father half-heartedly. He returned from the room with a jug of his wine and two cups. He placed one down in front of Tyran and filled it half way. “Don’t tell your mother.”

Grinning, Tyran took a long sip of the wine and smacked his lips together. “Is it Dornish wine?”

“You think Dorne will send us wine?”

Tyran chuckled. “Only if it’s poisoned.”

The dwarf returned the appreciation for the joke. “Why did you kiss the Princess?”

“She kissed me,” Tyran said, “this time.”

“This time?” Tyrion reiterated and Tyran nodded. “How many times have you kissed?” and his son shrugged. “More than twice?” A nod this time. “Ten? One hundred?”

“It’s closer to one hundred.”

“Seven hells.”

He meekly smiled. “Or maybe a thousand.”

Tyrion was not as much as angry or disappointed as he was surprised. Robb had come running to him when he kissed a girl and he remembered Tyran staring solemnly at his brother and looking at Alyse. Tyrion thought it was jealousy, but this had only been a short while ago. They had been teasing each other.

“So you have kissed her one thousand times, why so quiet?” Tyran ran the rim of his cup on his finger, releasing a slow, hollow chime. “Would it be cause to the marks on your neck?”

Tyran’s hand shot up there. “I didn’t think you would see.”

“I see everything.”

When Tyran looked down at his lap, Tyrion understood why his son was so anxious. _Gods_ , he thought to himself, _he is more like me than I would ever have imagined._ He was not ashamed of his son, like he felt before he had been shocked. If anything, he was disappointed that Tyran had not told him what his intentions were with the Princess and not willingly told him either. He would not treat Tyran’s first bedding the same way his own father had treated him.

“Does anyone know?”

“I don’t think so,” Tyran said quietly, “but there are guards at the door. Alyse says no one will say anything; they won’t dare accuse the Princess of bedding her cousin.”

That was true. So they _had_ thought of something before they... Tyrion did not want to think about it too long.

“Might I be uncomfortable to ask, Tyran and believe me I want to know as few details of this as possible, but where did you spill your seed?"

“Inside her."

 _Seven hells._ Tyrion would have slapped him for his stupidity if he believed that it would have an affect on him. What they did was in the past, it could not be changed or undone. Tyran had bedded and the Princess and spilled his seed inside of her. He might get her with child if the Gods were against them.

“You better hope she does not get with child.”

And his face drained with colour completely, his green eyes widening with fear. “Th-That could happen?”

“Yes.”

“I-I-” he began to panic. “The King will kill me!”

“Not while I breathe he won’t, and not while your Grandfather lives, either. It is unlikely the Princess will be with child after your _first_ bedding-”

“-Mother was, as was Lady Catelyn. Father, what do I do? Father I’m frightened.”

The son had no colour in his face, his pupils were dilated and his lips formed a thin, pink line. He began to shake, Tyrion could hear him breathing hard and heavy. The father pitied him, but could not blame Tyran all himself. Tyrion had discussed such matter with Robb, but never with Tyran; he had not expected his younger son to stay chaste, but he did however, expect noble Tyran to wait until his bedding, or at least Lord Tywin would have discussed such subject with him. But Tyran nor Tyrion were utterly to be blame, though Tyran took most of the blame himself, relying on his father to help him. The young boy clutched at his father's arm, gazed into his eyes as he pleaded with him for help.

“Please – please help me.”

Tyrion kissed his son on the top of the head. “It's alright. Let us not think of the future. If the Princess Alyse falls with child, you shall marry her promptly to prevent a scandal for both our houses and no one need know. If the King refuses the union then I know somewhere that we could get a potion to remove the child from her womb. You will not be hurt for this, Tyran, I promise you.”

“Don’t tell mother. Please don’t tell mother.”

“I won’t tell your mother."

“I couldn’t stand the shame.”

“Your mother loves you. She could never be ashamed of you no matter what you may have done – or _who_ you have done in this situation.” Tyran smiled good-heartedly. “You are my son, and I swear to you: nothing bad will happen.”

“Thank you father.”

“Remember this conversation and how frightened you feel when you have sons and they get themselves into a similar situation. They will only resent you if you get angry. Am I angry?”

“No.”

“Am I ashamed?”

“No.”

“Then neither should you be. Everything will turn out well.”

***

Two girls bled on the same day. One struck terror in Tyran and the other was a great source of relief.

Alyse had come to him a fortnight later and whispered in his ear that she had bled. Tyran smiled and told her that they should not risk it again; Alyse merely shrugged and suggested he spill his seed on her stomach next time.

The second bleeding was of Lady Helena Tyrell. Tyran did not hear of it directly, but the news came from his Grandfather who had trouble disguising his relief with formality.

“Are you not pleased?”

Tyran had gone into shock, gripping the arm of the chair so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His lips parted to make an ‘o’ and he was certain he would faint if he stood up. Everything had been going well in his life for those few hours with Alyse: fumbling together and planning their life of marriage. Now that Helena had bled he would marry her soon.

“No,” Tyran admitted. “I do not want to marry her.”

“Careful,” Lord Tywin warned. “You know it is your duty.”

“Yes,” Tyran agreed. “But I do not wish to marry her.”

“Would you rather marry the Princess Alyse?”

“It would be a better match.”

Lord Tywin scowled at his Grandson. “Since your encounter with the Princess, you have gotten too conceited for my liking. Has she shown desire to wed you?” There was no instant reply from the other side of the conversation. "Remember Tyran, you will be punished for your untruthfulness."

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“And what do we do with Helena Tyrell?”

“We could send her back to Highgarden.”

Tywin scoffed. “Let me inform you of something. Ever since your Uncle Jaime went to Dorne and murdered Daenerys Targaryen, the Dornish have been close to fighting with us. Prince Tommen gave them a reason when he rode south to kill the Sand Snakes. The only reason the Dornish did not fight back is because we had a strong alliance with the south. With Queen Margaery dead, what is to stop Mace Tyrell riding North with Dorne to take the throne? He has not met his Grandson and when he came to visit last King Joffrey had insulted him and banished him from the Red Keep. He claims his Grandchildren are not his sweet Margaery’s. With your marriage to Helena, Lord Tyrell would never raise his army against us. It will save your life, your family’s life and keep Princess Alyse alive too. If you wed Alyse, it would anger Highgarden and they may join with Dorne and slaughter us, sitting them on the throne. Now I ask you again, what do you suppose we do with Helena Tyrell?”

He gulped. “I wed her.”

“That is the best idea I have heard all day.”

***

He strived to impress her, he always had and always would.

So many years ago, Lucian had heard Alayne’s desire to one day sit the Iron Throne and rule as Queen. Lucian didn’t know if she was going to be Queen one day and take the place of his mother, but he _would_ let her sit it, and as the future King, he would have the right to allow anyone to sit on his father’s throne.

Lucian cornered Alayne after sewing lessons. She came out of the room, talking to her friends: Lucian’s cousin Helena Tyrell, and Alayne’s companion from the north Lyra Mormont. He jumped out from around the corner and approached the three girls, to which they curtsied sweetly for him.

“Alayne, I want to show you something,” Lucian beamed.

“Not now, Lucian,” Alayne sighed, taking the arm of the dark haired Mormont girl. “Maybe another time.”

“I can’t!” Lucian persisted. “Please Alayne!”

He watched her stare at him judgingly, and then exchanged glances with her two companions. Reluctantly, Alayne released Lyra and informed her that they would meet in her solar, and she took the arm of the future King and he led her to the throne room.

Prince Lucian showed her the Iron Throne as if she had never seen it before. She eyed him curiously, then slowly walked towards it, Lucian lurked behind in her shadows, beaming fiercely: proud of what he had to show her.

“You can sit it if you want,” said Lucian.

She looked over his shoulder at him, flashing him a smile with her perfect teeth. “Can I?”

He nodded, and Alayne gathered up her skirts and ran towards the throne. Lucian laughed as he watched her. Alayne bounded the first half of the steps, then slowly dragged herself up, wishing that she had something to cling onto in case she fell. Lucian had made the climb hundreds of times, but it was still astonishing how high it was.

“HOW DO YOU FEEL?” Lucian shouted at the top of his voice.

She sat herself on the throne as Lucian approached the bottom of the steps. He sat down on one of the bottom ones, already feeling quite exhausted and he had not even taken one step up to the throne.

“AMAZING!” She cried back.

Perhaps one day Alayne would be his Queen. Lucian very much hoped so. He could then make her feel amazing every day.

***

Sansa and Tyrion broke their fast together alone the following morning; their children had been instructed to dine with King Joffrey and his family. That happened once every few moons and it never ended drastically. Sansa just worried what the King would do to Robb; he had been exaggerating and fussing over the black eye the entire week he had it for. And she worried that the King would insult or frighten or leer over Alayne which would anger Robb like before and...

“Relax,” Tyrion whispered, taking Sansa’s hand and rubbing his thumb over the back of it. “The King would dare not do anything. Bronn is with Robb and I instructed him to escort Robb out of the room before he could get angered."

“He needs to talk to someone; he shouldn’t have all this anger.”

“You mean he should bottle up his anger like you do? Tell me: how does that work for you?”

She gave him an annoyed look. “Don’t.”

“If you want him to relax, then perhaps we should give him more freedom. Let him ride the grounds and the woods as he pleases and go for walks with his friends. I doubt he and Lucian are ever going to get into much trouble.”

Sansa considered it. “After the wedding.”

“The wedding,” Tyrion reiterated with a wry smile. “The wedding only the bride and her family want.”

“I should never have agreed to it,” Sansa recollected. “Jeyne was lovely – as is Willas. I hoped Helena would make Tyran happy, but he doesn’t want to marry her.”

“We swore an oath.”

Sansa knew all too well the effects broken marriage oaths could have on the bride’s family. She had lost her mother and brother to one. She took one for Joffrey too, fourteen years ago because she thought she was so in love with him. If she hadn’t done that she often wondered how different her life would be. Sansa realised that from past experience she should not have made an oath to marry Tyran to someone, that she should have let him choose his own wife and marry her.

“And father says they will marry at the beginning of the New Year which is five months away – perhaps more if we’re lucky. It will take that long for Willas and Jeyne to ride from Highgarden and father is determined to have them wed before Tyran publicly refused."

“If he marries her, he’ll leave us. He’s a boy. He’s thirteen. He’s new to the world still. Thirteen is too young to wed.”

“And you know from past experience.” Sansa winced. “Sansa, it's not secret you didn't want to marry me; we didn't consummate our marriage for many months after. Honestly, I am certain you still wish we were not wed."

“It’s not that,” Sansa admitted. “I was a child: frightened and I knew my head was wanted by almost five different people. And you were a Lannister. Your family was never good to me.”

“And now?”

“Now I have three children I love. The King is not as present anymore since Margaery passed. Cersei drinks herself in her room getting old and fat and your father hides himself away in his study teaching our son and ordering him around. I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy with life; our son is marrying for the reason the crown hopes the Tyrell’s will not lose alliance with us, Robb is a vengeful twelve-year-old boy who kissed me goodnight and told me he’ll avenge my family one day and Alayne is an innocent little girl trapped at court who will likely marry a stranger for the good of the realm who could be twice her age and on his death bed.”

Tyrion kissed her hand and she smiled gratefully. “At least you’re not wed to Joffrey and our happy and healthy children did not turn out like his.”

“Gods,” Sansa shivered. “Alyse the Wicked is not an exaggeration.”

“It definitely is not.”

“But Lucian is a nice boy. If Alayne had to marry him I would argue for the sake of her being Queen and Joffrey’s good-daughter: not because Lucian would be cruel to her.”

Tyrion didn’t want his daughter to marry any man – certainly not the spawn of King Joffrey.

***

Four months, they told her. Four months and she would stand and watch Tyran Lannister cloak and wed and fuck Helena Tyrell in front of the Sept of Baelor – though he would not fuck her in front of it, she supposed. And she was to wed nobody. It wasn’t as if she could even make him jealous by having a handsome young man on her arm. She would have to endure countless sightings of him and his wife, kissing in the corridors and raising their children in court until the Hand died. Alyse would have their heads before then.

Despite the King being against the match: calling the Tyrell’s traitors, it would not sway the Hand’s decision. Tyran and Helena would wed in four months and give him more heirs to Casterly Rock and live happily ever after.

Over her dead body.

***

Alayne’s favourite companion in court was Helena Tyrell, though she seemed to be the only one out of the Lannister children who liked her.

She was a lovely girl, very talented when it came to sewing and kind to Alayne. She was adventurous and skilful, witty and intelligent and had a good heart underneath her jealous and spite for Princess Alyse. Alayne did not think Helena had anything to worry about; their parents had taken a vow. Tyran _had_ to marry Helena.

“It’s not that he has to, it’s that he wants to,” Helena explained as she took her sewing lesson with Septa Jacqueline and Lyra Mormont. “He spends more time with Princess Alyse in a day than he has with me for a lifetime.”

Helena was slightly boring though: an opinion Alayne shared with her elder brother.

“Would you stop going on about it?” Snapped dark-haired, oval-faced Lyra Mormont, her thick black hair in double plaits hanging to her elbows. Alayne enjoyed Lyra’s company very much, but she lacked the sweetness that Helena had that Alayne enjoyed. “He’s not going to want to wed you if you keep moaning.”

Lyra and Helena did not get along very well despite being at court together for eleven years; they rivalled for Alayne’s company.

“At least I’m _getting_ married,” Helena pointed out. “I don’t see you making any arrangements.”

“I don’t want to wed.”

“Do you prefer girls?”

“ _Ladies_ ,” Septa Jacqueline interrupted in her husky voice. “We do not argue and we do not fight and we do not talk about such perversions.”

“Perversions,” Lyra muttered through her teeth, animatedly pulling thread out of her sewing board. “Princess Alysanne wants to lift her father’s ban about such things being illegal.”

“Which she should not do! It is a disgrace to how the Gods made us.”

“ _You_ are a disgrace to how the Gods made you, Sister Jacqueline: no one should have been cursed with such bad wrinkles.”

“ _Lyra_!” Alayne and Septa Jacqueline exclaimed in unison, to which Lyra gave them both a wicked grin, threw her sewing board on the floor, stamped on it and skipped out the room laughing. “ _Honestly_ ,” Septa Jacqueline sighed. “That girl is a _monster_.”

Alayne giggled into the leather garter she was sewing: a Lannister lion for her father’s nameday which was to arrive in a fortnight.

“Septa, when do you think I shall wed?” Alayne asked.

“Soon; a beautiful girl like you will not last long unmarried at court. When you blossom and flower you will have so many suitors it will be impossible to choose one.”

Alayne beamed. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so.”

“I don’t want to marry young,” she decided. “Maybe when I am five-and-ten.”

“A nice age,” Septa Jacqueline agreed, though she agreed with most things Alayne said. “Your mother and father will find a nice boy for you, I do believe that.”

“So do I,” she smiled.

Her mother and father would find her someone kind and gentle, somebody that would make her laugh and take an interest in her. A handsome young Ser who would cloak her in his family’s cloak and kiss her cheek as he reached over to fasten the clasp. She had dreamed that a man like valiant Prince Rhaegar would meet her and write her tragic love stories that would make her cry and name her Queen of Love and Beauty.

There would be a tourney for Helena and Tyran’s wedding, Lord Tywin had proclaimed after Alayne had asked her grandfather to host one. She had not been to any since Winterfell and had enjoyed it so much she agreed with her Grandfather that he would host a tourney for the wedding if she would encourage Tyran and Helena to spend more time together.

She had done this by arranging to sup with them both and then leaving in the beginning to make them be alone. She had initiated riding trips with the both of them – of course they did not know each of them were going – and lie and have someone tell them she was sick. She had done this five times in the past moon and her Grandfather said he was pleased with her work and asked her if there were any people she wanted specifically to come to the tourney. She said she wanted to meet Haelan Tyrell at last and see if he was as valiant and handsome as Helena said he was.

She was excited for this wedding even if her brother was not.


	26. Royal Relations

The wedding came around all too quickly for Tyran. Lords and Ladies and their families had flocked from all regions of the Seven Kingdoms to see Lord Tywin’s infamous Grandson wed the beautiful and graceful Helena Tyrell: the niece of the Queen, the daughter of the future Lord of Highgarden and Granddaughter of the present. It was to be a grand wedding: a celebration that spanned two days all at the expense of the Tyrell’s and Lannister’s attempting to outshine each other. Mace Tyrell had brought in the finest entertainers from Braavos and Helena’s dress was made in Myr from the purest silk while Lord Tywin held the tourney in which a near fifty knights were competing, including Prince Lucian and Robb and Tyran and Haelan Tyrell (the twin brother to the bride) where they would compete in the newly formed joust for the young men, competing for the title of the Young Champion for a purse of fifty gold dragons.

Though there was a hidden meaning for the tourney. Tywin needed more unions. He needed somebody to marry to Cersei and he a new Queen for Joffrey; he was still fertile and the sooner he was wed, the sooner he would leave the whores he was sneaking into the castle before he could put bastards on them. There were still arrangements for Alyse, Alysanne and Lucian and Tyran and Alayne. Tywin didn't know how long he would have to live, but he would sooner die than see his Grandchildren wed beneath them.

***

Tyran did not sleep in his own bed that night.

For the first time in forever, he slept a full night in Princess Alyse’s bed, naked against the fur coverings of her bed, pressed up against her warm body. He buried her face in her golden hair, fingering the ringlets that fell down her back. Come morn she was awake first, studying his handsome, waking him with a gentle kiss on his lips and a pained demand.

“Please don’t marry her.”

Tyran frowned, yawning. “Please let’s not go through this again.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Please don’t marry her,” she croaked. She sounded as if she was on the brink of tears, but Princess Alyse did not cry. She was heartless and wicked and a bitch, but when they were alone and in each other’s arms she was a perfect saint. “I love you. Please don’t marry her. You don’t have to marry me, just please don’t marry her. I love you. Don’t leave me. Father will marry me to a stranger if you don’t. I love you.”

She spoke rushed and he planted a kiss on her forehead. “I will never love her. I will always love you.”

Alyse took his hand and placed it on her belly. For a horrifying second, Tyran feared he had impregnated her.

“Think of the life we could have together.”

“Alyse-”

“-You comforted me when my mother died, after years of being on my own you were there for me and you held me and you loved me. She will not love you as I love you. She will not comfort you when your mother dies as I will. She cannot _pleasure_ you as I can.”

He moved his hand to her breast and kissing her jawline as he did so. “I have to marry her.”

“Then make give me one last wish,” she asked. “If you win the tourney, piss her off and make me your Queen of Love and Beauty for it will be the only time in my life I will ever be Queen.”

“How could I name Helena Tyrell the Queen of Love and Beauty when she looks like a horse’s backside?”

Alyse stifled a giggle and kissed Tyran’s puffy lips. “This does not release you from me. Because you’ll fuck another woman now does not mean you can leave me. You are mine as I am yours. Imagine me as you say your vows. Think of the life we can have together.”

But Tyran wanted his marriage to be a content one. He did not want to imagine Alyse as he took Helena’s maidenhead tomorrow night. But he did not want to forget his beautiful Princess either and he did not want to marry Lady Helena either. He could never be content his life while he wasn’t with Alyse.

“You are mine as I am yours.”

“You’re damn right I am. Now make love to me as your last night of a free man, Lannister. I order you in the name of King Joffrey to fuck me.”

“Well,” Tyran explored her neck with his teeth. “If the King demands it.”

She pushed a hand on his chest, pushing him on his back and she straddled him, rubbing against his cock and making him hard, tracing kisses along his chest and scraping her nails lightly along his sides until goose flesh appears.

“No. Your _Queen_ of the tourney demands it.”

***

Robb would win the tourney - that was inevitable. 

He was the best jouster out of any young man in the Seven Kingdoms. He was tall and muscular and handled a jousting stick as if he was born with one in his hand, though Sansa denied that he was, stating it would be very painful for her is that was true.

Prince Lucian had practiced with him a thousand times hoping to beat him, but he was weak and if Lucian was thrown off a horse too many times he would faint. Between he and Robb they had broken every bone in their body and laughed about it, climbed back on their horse and played. But Lucian didn’t want to be unhorsed by everyone at the tourney. Hundreds of people would be presents and he couldn’t shame himself in front of his father and have him beat him. He couldn’t shame himself in front of Alayne either.

This is why Lucian went to his best friend on the morning of the tourney in his chambers after his squire had dressed him. Robb had dismissed his squire Jonas, both of them laughing about one of the Ladies at court that Jonas had fucked previously. In a good mood, Lucian thought it would be better to approach his friend about it than when he was sour.

Already the future Lord of Winterfell was dressed in his armour: a shining silver plated suit with a Stark wolf on the front, given to him by Willas Tyrell for his thirteenth name. He was very proud of it and rode a Stark banner into the tourney with him after asking Lord Tywin and the King’s permission. They had accepted on the account he would not show the family’s name up and destroy Haelan Tyrell.

“What is it?” Robb asked not impatiently. “Is there something the matter?”

“Yes,” said Lucian hesitantly, “it’s you.”

“What about me?”

“You can’t win the tourney.”

“ _Why_?”

Lucian sat on Robb’s bed. “You’re to joust your brother first and you’ll win. Then I’m to joust Georges Westerling and I’ll beat him because he’s nine. Then you’ll _obviously_ win against Haelan Tyrell because you’re the best jouster in Westeros, and it will be against you and me. I’ll do anything. Just let me win the tourney.”

Robb cocked an eyebrow. “Promise me you’re not going to do anything that will cause your father to beat you.”

Lying: “Of course.”

***

The snow barely covered Tyrion’s leather shoes when he stepped outside. It was one of the warmest days of winter and people took this to their advantage by leaving their fur cloaks behind and watching the tourney in their thick garments. Tyrion was one of them, as was his wife and children though his son’s were fighting in the tourney, much to Sansa’s chagrin.

She had asked Tyran and Robb not to fight, scared they would be hurt or killed, but Robb had gotten annoyed and yelled at his mother and enlisted anyway so the family walked down – Tyran and Robb rode on their mares – to the tourney yard where the boys would leave them for their tents to be readied for the fighting.

“Stay safe,” Sansa called to them as the boys rode off.

“I will mother,” Tyran called back to her though Robb said nothing.

Tyrion took Alayne’s arm. He had to reach up because she was a great deal taller than him. His daughter was taller than their oldest son, and just a few inches shorter than Robb who towered over his family like a grown man, bigger than the King and his Grandfather. Alayne planted a kiss on her father’s cheek as she would so often do and smiled at him.

“You look very beautiful Alayne,” Tyrion smiled.

“Thank you father.”

“Yes she does,” Sansa agreed. She put a gentle hand on Alayne’s shoulder as they traipsed through the snow, both women holding up their gowns to prevent them soiling in the snow. “You are going to be the envy of every woman at the tourney.”

“They have to get through me first if they want her hand,” Tyrion remarked.

“I can see them fighting you; they’d push you to the ground with a poke.”

Sansa laughed. “You certainly do have your father’s wits.”

“But your mother’s beauty.”

His wife smiled down at him: a true smile of elegance and beauty, flattered by the compliment he had paid her thousands of times yet she could still not love him. He had fallen in love with her within their first year of marriage, but it was taking longer for Sansa than he would have thought, but she stayed true to him and loyal.

***

They took their seats at the tourney in a section beside the King and his Princess’ at the front. Alayne and Princess Alysanne leaned over the wooden barrier to gossip with each other, discussing how handsome the men were and how ugly some of the women’s gowns were. They were both stunned by the beauty of Harrold Hardyng. They had both been too young to remember him properly when he arrived at the capitol for the wedding of his sister Cathy to Prince Tommen.

“He’s beautiful,” Alayne gushed. “Too bad he’s wed.”

“I’d make him forget about his wife.” Both girls sniggered with each other. “He has a bastard but I’m not surprised; I wouldn’t turn down a man like that.”

“Me neither,” Alayne admitted. “He’s so _charming_ – is he fighting today?”

Alysanne cleared her throat. “No; he’s saving his energy for me.”

Both Alysanne and Alayne giggled together. “Are you alright Alysanne? Your voice sounds a bit raspy.”

The Princess waved it off. “It’s probably just the wine.”

***

Dozens of men fought in the tourney. It took a long while to narrow the final champions to Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard and Ser Harrold Hardyng. Women swooned at the two men as they rode into the tourney field, both on grey mares alike with their jousting sticks ready and their golden hair flowing behind them in the faint winter wind.

“Who do you think will win?” King Joffrey asked his daughter’s.

“Loras,” replied Alyse immediately.

Her sister disagreed. “Ser Harrold.”

“But we all know who will lose the joust later.”

The three of them shared a snigger for the young Prince’s embarrassment. Alysanne spluttered after she laughed and dabbed her mouth with her skirt.

“Have you had too much wine, Alysanne?” Asked the King.

“No,” Alysanne replied. She gathered up her skirts and rose, feeling slightly faint. “I think I’m going to go back to the castle.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Joffrey asked in concern.

“I’m fine, father, just a little sickly.”

So King Joffrey had Ser Meryn Trant escort her back to the castle.

***

Tyrion had once believed he could be a tourney knight but this was before he had realised that he would always be a dwarf, that he would never grow as tall as Jaime and his father and would always be a disappointment. He had always wondered how his father felt after Jaime unhorsed men in tourneys or won glorious battles and after he killed Mad King Aerys but when he saw Robb and Tyran ride out in their shining silver armour with the Lannister and Stark House symbols engraved on the front, he had a good idea.

There were perhaps fourteen or less young boys riding, but none of them could hold a flame to the way Robb rode around the field. Tyran was a good rider: quick and speedy, but Robb Lannister was stern and strong and rode a horse better than men Tyrion’s age.

“How about three dragons for the Lannister boy?” Tyrion heard a gambler at his right say.

“Which one?” asked a low Lord.

“The one named for the traitor: Robb Lannister!”

“I’ll put three dragons on the Hand’s heir.”

The gold was exchanged and Tyrion smiled at his wife who sat at the edge of the bench, her hands clasped together has she watched Robb ride around the field. He had captured everybody’s attention, including the King and Lord Tywin whose eyes followed him around the field away from the future King who was shouting up to them with pride. The way Sansa looked at Robb: proud and with undeniable envy, he would not have thought that earlier that morning she had begged Robb not to ride.

“Four galleons my son unhorses yours,” Tyrion smirked at Willas Tyrell who sat behind him.

“That’s unfair; you have two sons.”

“Four galleons Robb unhorses Haelan, then.”

He considered it. “Alright: if your son wins I’ll give you four galleons and pay for this wedding myself, but if Haelan wins, you have to give your daughter to him.”

“Tyrion,” Sansa warned, putting a hand on his arm. “ _Don’t_.”

But Tyrion had already shook Willas Tyrell’s hand.

***

Alysanne ran to her chambers when she dismounted her horse. She could hear Ser Meryn shouting at her to stop and asking the other household guards to catch her up but that had only made her run faster.

She sprinted through the corridors and up countless steps. She didn’t know where she was going but she had to keep her mind off it. Anything was better than the fright going through her mind, and that included toppling over loose stone work and smashing into people as they passed her.

“Princess,” her Grandfather Mace Tyrell caught her. “Are you hurt?”

But she pushed away from him and continued to run through the castle. She was going to go to Grand Maester Qyburn but could not bring herself to talk to him. Then she went to her Grandmother Cersei’s chambers but when she got to the door the mere prospect of telling _anyone_ what was wrong with her petrified her, so she ran to her chambers instead.

She almost reached it but had collided with someone. It was one of Alayne’s companions, the Mormont girl with the wild dark hair and green eyes. Lyra was her name. Lyra Mormont, the weird one who would stare at her in court, pulled faces and make her laugh.

“Lyra,” Alysanne breathed.

“Why are you running?”

Alysanne gasped with breath and began to sputter. Lyra Mormont took a white, linen cloth from her breast and gave it to the Princess and she coughed into it for long and lengthy minutes, crumpling it up in her hand after using it.

“What’s the matter?”

Princess Alysanne shook her head. “I-I don’t know – it doesn’t matter.” Then she flared up. “It’s none of your _business_.”

“I was only asking if you were alright,” the Lady Lyra snapped. “Fucking hells.”

“It isn’t your concern what are my troubles – why aren’t you at the tourney?”

Lyra Mormont shrugged. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

Lyra kissed the Princess: a sweet gentle kiss that caught her completely off guard. “I’ve told you what’s troubling me so you have to tell me now; it’s only fair.”

Alysanne’s breath caught in her mouth. _So I am not the only one._ When Lyra kissed her... Alysanne felt something. She didn’t know what. She had never kissed a boy to compare it to because itt had always been Alyse with the men trailing around her; she was the eldest daughter and the most beautiful one. Their father’s favourite. The court’s hero. Alyse was tall and slender and flirtatious and bled when she was nine. Alysanne was tall and gawky and yet to bleed at thirteen. No boy had ever pursued her, and Alysanne had always preferred the company of girls to boys.

“Perhaps I can help you,” Lyra stated lengthily.

Alysanne gave the elder girl a sweet smile. “Perhaps you can.”

***

Tyran had been unhorsed by a younger Kellington boy:a lower house from the Stormlands which the Lord would be certain to ridicule Lord Tywin about in the future. Tywin had demanded that Tyran would not fight in the tourney, but his grandson had insisted that he use Quickblade to honour the family. When Robb made it to the final four without a single bruise he contemplated giving the sword to the other brother.

“Useless,” Cersei grunted into her wine. “Absolutely useless – what was the point in this, father? This tourney and letting the younger boys fight? No one ever cares about this.”

“Alayne insisted.”

Cersei scoffed. “You never went to this much trouble for Joff, Tommen or Myrcella.”

“I held King Joffrey a tournament once.”

“But never for his wedding.”

_No_ , Tywin thought, _I gave him a wedding with seventy-seven courses to outshine the Tyrell’s and now I am doing it again_.

“Why did we marry Tyran to the Tyrell girl? Their Grandson will sit the throne and always give them a good claim to riches.”

“It was not my doing: it was your brother’s wife.”

“Sansa,” Cersei said derisively. “The silly little fool.”

His eyes fell to his son’s red-haired wife who cheered when Robb unhorsed another contestant, putting him in the final with Prince Lucian who had only made it into the final because, undoubtedly, all the other father’s had warned their son’s to let the Prince win to win good favour with the Lannister’s. Tywin sat up straight; Robb had nothing to lose if he attacked the Prince. He would bring the honour to the Lannister name that his brother had lost.

“You ought to keep an eye on him,” Cersei muttered.

“I always do.”

She looked at her father. “No I don’t think you do. You watched over Tyran because you worried he may bed Alyse, but you’ve neglected the fact that this boy is the heir to Winterfell and named after Sansa’s traitor brother.”

“Named after your husband, I believe.”

“A ploy so she could call him Robb.”

“Unquestionably,” Tywin agreed. “So what are you inferring?”

“He’d raise the north against us if he could.”

Scoffing: “With what army?”

“His brother’s.”

Tywin looked at his daughter. “You think that when Robb and Tyran grow older, they will raise the north and west against the crown?”

“Unquestionably,” she mimicked her father's tone. 

“Then perhaps we should make arrangements to prevent this from occurring."

“Like what?” Tywin’s eyes flittered to their sister and Cersei noted this with a wicked smile. “Oh.”

***

“Ser Robert of the Houses Lannister and Stark does hereby fight Prince Lucian of the House Baratheon, the first of his name,” the man’s voice bellowed throughout the crowd. Sansa and Tyrion had moved to the front, gripping the wooden frame with Alayne wedged neatly between them. “May honour be brought upon them both.”

“COME ON ROBB!” Alayne screamed, jumping in the air wildly. “BEAT HIM!”

The two boy’s horses reared at each other. Robb’s new horse Brandon’s hoof beat the ground as the rider waved his flag in the air: the Stark Direwolf on a crimson background: his horse draped in Lannister checks of red and gold.

“FOR WINTERFELL!” Robb screamed.

“FOR MOTHER!” Bellowed the Prince.

Tyrion laughed. “How they love to piss off their families.”

“Father!” Alayne shouted. “I’m trying to watch them!”

Two arms reached behind Alayne and pulled her onto the wooden ledge so she sat as tall as her mother. Sansa turned around to thank the man for pulling Alayne until she saw that it was Joffrey who had done it and nodded curtly to her.

“Your son rides well,” he noted.

“As does yours.”

“Of course he only wins because none of the other boys will hit him,” Joffrey remarked. “He wouldn’t win any other way.”

Joffrey regarded his son less than his daughter’s: a fact that she would not have believed before Lucian was born. And Sansa despised the way Joffrey spoke about him: remarking that he would die soon and if he had the option, Alyse would be made Queen and Lucian sent to rule over Storm’s End.

The Prince and Robb charged at each other with their jousting sticks. The Prince’s stick missed Robb but Robb’s went flying into the Prince’s black stallion, knocking him off course but did not unhorse him. Sansa had not seen Robb miss after hitting a horse like that before, and when she heard Robb laughing when he rounded near them, flowers being thrown at his horse’s feet, she knew he was letting the Prince win.

“He rides better than your eldest,” King Joffrey continued. “He was taught to be a Lord and this one to be a warrior.”

“They were taught nothing,” Tyrion interrupted. “It is instinct.”

“Then what is my son’s instinct? Is it to be a shame to his family? If his mother was alive she would be disappointed in him so much. I told him this much and he began to cry. That boy is no King.”

Sansa watched Robb turn another corner, missing the Prince by a mile purposely, and the Prince missing Robb accidently. The crowd laughed as Robb played them: pretending to topple off his horse and rearing it up twice when he neared the Prince. _He wants them to believe his arrogance defeated him: not the love for his friend._

At last, Lucian’s stick rode into the side of Robb’s horse – a hit that would not have knocked off any rider, but Robb took it to his advantage of rolling off his horse and clutching his side in pain as Lucian rode around the field, accepting the cheers and celebration and flowers being thrown at him.

“Perhaps he will be a better King than you thought,” Tyrion said to his Nephew.

“Unlikely,” sighed the King.

***

For a while it seemed that Robb would strike a win and was just teasing the crowd with his friend, but when Robb faked the fall which named Prince Lucian the champion of the younger tourney, Cersei and Tywin returned to their conversation.

“How do we press the betrothal?” Cersei asked. “Joff would never let Lucian wed Alayne.”

Tywin cleared his throat. “You’re his mother; you’ll make him see sense. Make it sound like it was his idea.”

“So Joff gets all the credit and you none? This is just like the time when you composed the Red Wedding and killed the Stark’s: you allowed old Walder Frey all the honour.”

“And the blame,” Tywin corrected.

“And this is the same?” He nodded. “It may take some time.”

“We do not have much time,” Tywin said gruffly, “with this plague creeping upon the Kingdoms it could strike either of them. It could likely kill the King or the Prince – or even both. If it takes one of them with no heirs then the crown falls to Princess Alyse and the Baratheon name truly gets wiped out.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“No,” Tywin agreed. “But you can tame stags. You cannot stop flowers from going through.”

“You mean the Tyrell’s?” Tywin nodded. “So why have your Grandson marry one?”

“Because it is one less to worry about taking the crown.”

***

After parading around the field, Prince Lucian had never felt better loved. He saw his own father applauding him from the stands, standing down at the front with Aunt Sansa, Uncle Tyrion and Alayne. Lucian waved to them all, drawing his horse around to them, accepting the kisses blown at him and the garnets of flowers. He took it all in: looking up to see his sister’s but finding that they had both disappeared from the box. How he would have loved to see their faces that he had won – albeit falsely, but still defying the odds.

Lucian reared his horse around the stands to the end where he was presented with a crown of orange roses to present to his Queen of Love and Beauty. He held the champion’s favour in his hand: the reason he and Robb had faked the tourney and rode his horse around the field, holding it in his hand before he reached his desired Queen.

He steered his horse to her: standing beautiful in her long gown of midnight blue wedged between her parents. He reached through the crowd and handed her the queen of beauty’s laurel.

_It matches her hair: orange like her mother’s._

***

Cersei laughed and she held her cup up to her Grandson. Even Lord Tywin seemed amused as he allowed his daughter to fill his cup with wine.

“Perhaps it won’t be difficult to arrange this marriage,” Cersei noted. “As he’s named her his Queen of Love and Beauty already.”

***

When Tyran was unhorsed in the tourney, everybody had been confused in shock and fights had broken out between men placing bets. Alysanne had already slipped through the crowd and the King went to stand at the front to watch Lucian embarrass herself, Princess Alyse climbed down the back of the stage and ran across the field into the tents.

She found Tyran in his tent, alone and naked from his torso upwards, cleaning mud off his body with cold water and cloth. He didn’t acknowledge her when she entered his tent and continued to wash himself.

“Would you like me to take off my dress? Would that give me your attention?”

Tyran grinned. “I’ll take it off for you.”

“I thought you rode well,” she opinionated.

“You’re just saying that.”

“Well would you like me to tell you that you rode shit?”

“Robb’s always been the better rider,” Tyran complained. “The better jouster and the better swordsman. Grandfather tried telling me not to fight but I was insistent anyway. I wanted to make you proud.”

“I’m always proud of you,” she said softly, “here, let me help you.”

She crossed the tent and sat on the chair beside him, taking the cloth from his stiff hands and wringing it in the basin, applying cold water onto his back to clean off the mud. It was intimate moments like this that Alyse would lose to the Tyrell bitch on the morrow.

“Please don’t marry her.”

“ _Alyse-_ ”

She grabbed his shoulder, her fingernails digging into his back and forced his body round to face her. “You’re mine. Not hers and I’ll make sure she realises that. When she thinks she’s safe I’ll teach her a lesson.”

Tyran eyed her. “Your mother would be very ashamed of you.”

“Then she shouldn’t have gotten herself killed.” Alyse jolted to her feet, slapping the cloth back into the basin, splashing Tyran with water. “I’ll expect you at the Champion’s feast. If I see you talking to her I’ll gut you and make her wear your entrails as a piece of jewellery.”

He laughed, taking her hand and pulling her to a kiss. “You’ll always be mine as I’ll always be yours.”

“You better damn right believe it.”

***

The Champion’s feast was held in the Throne Room, where as they had been watching the tourney, servants had laid out several tables and food and drinks for the guests to return to afterwards.

When the Lannister family arrived, the hall was filled with people laughing and celebrating the victorious wins of Loras Tyrell and Prince Lucian, and diverted through the crowd to their usual seats to the royal family’s left at feasts.

“Where’s your crown, Queen Alayne?” Robb jeered.

She flushed. “Shut it.”

“Stop teasing her,” Tyrion scolded. “She’ll have her husband take your heads.”

Robb and Tyrion laughed while Tyran sincerely turned to his little sister and took her hand. “Everybody will forget about this in a fortnight or two. You’ll have a short reign.”

She punched her eldest brother in the gut. “I don’t even like him! He follows me and Lyra and Helena around the castle, hiding in the corners and it’s annoying! I tell him to leave me alone but he keeps doing it!”

“Because he loves you,” Robb remarked.

“He does not.”

“Yes he does; why else would he ask me to lose to him so he could name you his Queen of Love and Beauty. It was sweet.”

“It wasn’t sweet it was embarrassing! Everyone’s going to be laughing at me for years! No boy will ever go near me now _Lucian_ wants me! Why did you do it?”

“Because it’s funny.”

***

King Joffrey had a similar question to ask his son. He did not see him after he named Sansa’s daughter his Queen of Love and Beauty and the whole idea of it was laughable. He saw his mother though, who insinuated the prospect of betrothing his son and their daughter to gain favour with the Prince and tempt him into becoming King.

“He’s an idiot,” Alyse snorted into her cup of wine at the feast. Alyse and Lucian sat either side of the King because Alysanne was not present, still in her room after being ill and refusing her sister entry when she went to find her. “Out of every girl you lay the wreath of flowers into _her_ hand.”

“You weren’t even there!” Lucian cried at his sister.

Joffrey turned to Alyse; he did not know that Alyse had left the tourney. “Where did you go?”

“To see Alysanne.”

“That’s a lie,” Lucian beamed triumphantly. “Robb saw you sneaking into Tyran’s tent after he lost the tourney.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“What were you doing in his tent?”

Alyse had succeeded in avoiding the question by clapping her hands together when a new song began. “I love this song! I must dance to this!” But it was the Bear and Maiden Fair and Joffrey knew that Alyse detested this ballad.

That left Joffrey and his heir alone and the smile from his young son’s face diminished. He returned to eating his food and staring amongst the crowd with his silver crown on his golden hair.

“One day you’ll wear a golden crown,” commented the King.

“Not for a long, long while, I hope.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t want you to die.”

The King knew that to be a lie because two moons ago Lucian had wished his father dead to his face, and the King called him out in it.

“I know you dislike me, I know you do not wish to be King. The former I can do nothing about, but I can tempt you to take the throne and gain your favour. You have your laurel to Alayne Lannister, naming her your Queen of Love and Beauty. What if you presented her with a golden crown, making her your Queen.” Lucian stared up at his father in surprise, juice spilling down his chin from his sausage. “Not immediately, but after this wedding on the morrow I shall make the announcement to her parents and preparations will be made. Would you like that?”

Lucian was stunned into silence, stammering his words. “C-C-Can I ask her to d-dance with me?”

“If you promise not to tell her your intentions.”

***

Lucian crossed the hall in a daze. He was going to marry Alayne. Alayne was his friend: and she was kind and funny and beautiful. She would be the best Queen that Westeros would ever see – apart from his mother. She would be a great Queen and give her lots of children that they would love together, and they could ride horses in the yard and walk their dogs and go swimming in the lake, pick fruit from the gardens and travel Westeros. He had a skip in his step as he thought about it, and arrived at Alayne’s table, bowing, grinning profusely.

“Alayne! Will you dance with me, Alayne!”

She turned her head around and stared at him. “Leave me alone, Lucian.”

He had heard that all too many times. “Please Alayne!”

“ _No_ , Lucian! No means no!”

“One dance?”

“She said no,” Tyrion said softly, “let her be. Let her finish her dinner at least.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Wait at your table,” Alayne snapped impatiently. “And leave me alone.”

“But will you dance with me?”

“Later.”

“Do you promise?”

“I’ll dance with you one dance,” she informed. “But you’ll leave me alone after that.”

“When?”

“ _Later_. Go and find someone else to dance with.”

“Oh,” said the Prince, “sorry.”

She didn’t say anything after that and turned back to her family. Lucian bowed to the others and walked back through the hall without the previous spring in his step to his father.

“Where’s Alyse?” Lucian asked.

“She went to give her best wishes to the bride,” Joffrey answered derisively. “She’s always disappearing. Go and see if you can’t find her.”

“Yes, Father,” Lucian sighed.

***

When Princess Alyse saw Lady Helena Tyrell leave the Throne Room she made her excuse to er father and slipped around the end of the hall, weaving past drunken Lords and gossiping Ladies to follow the young girl out of the room. She was absent for the first time Alyse had ever seen her, and not in the company of Alayne Lannister nor Lyra Mormont. The young girl walked down the corridor alone, her hands swinging from her side, humming the song that had been playing in the hall. She had tried to leave earlier but was cornered by her Grandfather Mace Tyrell so tried again this time, following the girl up to her chambers.

The guards opened them for Helena and Alyse picked up her speed, slipping in with Helena when the doors were opened. Helena gasped, clutching her hand in her heart but then laughed a laugh of relief when she saw it was the Princess whom entered her chambers.

“Your Grace! Forgive me; you shocked me.”

_I mean to do more than shock you_. Alyse couldn’t see why Tyran would agree to this match. Sure the girl was pretty with her soft brown eyes and matching hair which hung straight down her waist. She wasn’t particularly skinny either and had crooked teeth and a prominent jaw. Tyran wouldn’t marry her for her kindness or her talent musically either. So why _was_ he marrying her?

“Are you excited for your wedding?” Alyse asked, linking her hands behind her back.

“Of course, your Grace,” she smiled. “It will be an honour to unite our houses again, and Tyran is extremely wonderful and handsome, isn’t he?”

“Well he’s better looking than the other brother.”

“I suppose so. If her Grace doesn’t mind, what did you need to see me?”

Alyse released her hands from around her back and allowed them to fall loosely to her side. “You shall not marry Tyran on the morrow.”

The girl blinked. “Sorry?”

“Yes you should be sorry,” Alyse snapped. “You won’t marry him. You’re to go to your father, crying that if you marry him you’ll jump from the tallest tower in the Red Keep.”

“I won’t do that!”

“Yes you will,” Alyse snarled.

Helena looked behind her at the door and edged closer. Alyse sensed that. The Princess grabbed a lock of Helena’s hair and pulled her through the room, muffling her voice with her own brown hair, dropping her to her knees whimpering. Alyse squatted down next to her, grabbing her face roughly in her hand and pulling her closer to her.

“If you scream I’ll strangle you.”

Alyse let go of Helena, but in a second Helena ceased the opportunity and screamed. Expecting this, Alyse gave Helena a blow to the face so it knocked the girl off course, knocking her to the floor.

“I warned you not to scream.”

The Princess kicked her again in the face. _If I kick her more she won’t be pretty_. So she did so. In the nose, the eyes, her mouth and her prominent chin. Her face was cut and bleeding and who would dare accuse the Princess of attacking another girl? Her father would have their head if one of the guards accused her, and Helena Tyrell knew better than that.

“Now listen here you little floozy,” Alyse dropped to her knees so her lips were inches from Helena’s face. “You’re not going to marry Tyran, are you?”

“Y-Yes-”

Alyse smacked Helena. She did not scream, merely whined out of her mouth, clutching at her face. That was changed when Alyse shuffled around and stamped her heeled boot on Helena’ arm.

“Are you going to marry him?”

“I have to!”

“Not if you’re dead you don’t.”

The Princess straddled Helena Tyrell and put her hands to her neck. Lady Helena squirmed in her hands but could not scream. When she attempted to, only hoarse and empty screams emancipated from her pretty mouth. Alyse dug her fingernails into her throat, throttling her, drawing blood. Her face turned purple. Her eyes rolled back into her head. She began to shake as Alyse applied more pressure and chocked the life out of her.

Then she was dead.

The Princess stood back and admired her work, dusting off her hands and wiping the blood on her dress. It would not show; she had chosen a dark green dress for the feast. And then she set to work covering her tracks.

If she was to say they were both attacked, she would need to have more wounds. She did this by slapping her cheek so it was red and raw, clutching Helena’s bed frame when the pain struck her and her eyes watered. _No, start crying. That’ll make it more believable_. She then dropped on her knees and began to cradle Helena’s lifeless body, all the time ensuring that she was truly dead. She was cold and she could feel no heart rate. That was as good as dead for her.

Then she screamed.

***

Before the death of Helena Tyrell was told to the court, Tyrion saw the Tyrell family leaving the hall in small numbers.

“What’s happened?” Tyran asked his father, clearly noticing the same. “Are they leaving?”

“Yes,” Tyrion said, “but I don’t know why; Willas still has to make a speech.”

Tyran cringed. “I wish he wouldn’t.”

They settled back down to dinner and it was made apparent to the court that something had happened when a teary Mace Tyrell crossed the hall to speak to the King. Tyrion watched his face fall as he rose from his chair and ran from the room with Lucian following quickly in his footsteps.

Robb grabbed his friend. “What happened?”

“Alyse and Helena were attacked in her room!” Lucian gasped. “H-Helena’s d-dead!”

***

Joffrey found his daughter sat on Helena’s bed, clutching the bed frame, swinging her legs from the bed. The corpse lay before her as Maesters inspected it to find out what had killed her. They quickly discovered she had been strangled but none had thought to ask Alyse what happened.

_They know it was me_ , she thought suddenly, _but they dare not say it_.

She was pleased when her father found her and he dismissed everybody from the room and told them, at last, to remove the corpse away from where his daughter could no longer see it. The Princess didn’t mind seeing it so much; it reminded her of the love she and Tyran shared.

“I’ll have their heads tonight,” Joffrey snarled. “All of them who guarded this door and were supposed to protect you. I shall have their heads.”

As she had suspected. “Oh father-”

“-Did he hurt you? Your cheek...” Joffrey grabbed the side of her face, pulling it closer to him. She dramatically winced and Joffrey released it instantly. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. Just a peasant.”

“When I find out who did this to you I will have their body strung up against the castle gates. Nobody hurts my daughter and gets away with it.”

Alyse found it difficult not to laugh. “Helena was so brave. She sacrificed her life for mine so I could be happy.”

“The guards should have been watching you.”

Alyse put her head against her father’s side. He did not care about the Tyrell girl: his own niece, only his daughter who had not suffered from the ‘attack’ at all. She covered her smile in his cloak and muffled her laughter with what she hoped would sound like crying.

Tyran should get the message now. He was hers and she was his. There was nobody else.

***

Tyran was shocked by the news and sat with his father throughout the night in his chambers, awaiting any news that would be given to them. Robb had been excited by the murder and snuck into the room with Lucian in the night and swore to Tyran he could still hear her screams. Sansa stayed awake with Alayne who cried into her mother’s skirts for the death of her best friend. Tyran did not cry for his betrothed. He said nothing.

“They will find who did this,” Tyrion promised.

But Tyran knew who did it. He knew it was Alyse the moment Lucian had told them she had been ‘attacked’ but he did not think she would be capable of it and could not believe it was her. Anybody else might have been able to believe it if they knew the truth, but Tyran could not think of his beautiful Princess as a murderer.

***

Nobody knew really what to do the following day. The decorations for the wedding were stripped; the entertainment dismissed and sent home and the guests – not wanting to stay in the Red Keep a moment longer – returned home. So the castle was a much quieter place than it had been and everybody kept themselves to themselves.

Tyrion could not stand it.

Early the following day, he dressed and bathed and roamed the corridors. He did not find anybody around and he was glad; he was not in the mood for conversation. Though he did not know the girl particularly well; she had been closer to Sansa and Alayne when they dined together, she was to be his daughter today and had died unexpectedly. It reminded him all too well of when the war had been among them.

He was not the only one who thought that either. When he went outside to cross the gardens he saw Helena’s own father, Willas Tyrell, sat on the fountain with four guards stood at every entrance to the gardens watching him. He did not move. He sat sullenly, his hands on his lap, staring down at the stone floor.

_He will blame me_ , Tyrion knew, _we fostered Helena and made her join our family and swore to protect her but she died._ Tyrion walked on but was stopped when he became aware of Willas shouting his name, so could do nothing else but cross the gardens and stand beside the man who had lost his daughter.

“A terrible tragedy,” Tyrion said, “we all loved her very much.”

“She was your daughter as much as mine. I should never have let her leave Highgarden. She was still a baby when she left us, but Jeyne so badly wanted to please your wife...”

“Where is Jeyne?”

“She stayed at Highgarden,” Willas sniffed. “She has the plague.”

“Oh,” Tyrion said. Now it was likely his wife was dead as well as his daughter. “My friend Bronn’s sister-in-law recently died of it. It was terrible when she parted. I shall say a prayer in the sept tonight that your wife and daughter rest in the Heavens safely.”

“If only your prayers could have stopped them from dying. Tyrion, I only hope you never have to struggle through the loss of one of your children dying; it is one of the hardest things a father has to go through. You cannot cry openly in fear of upsetting your wife. You have to stay strong for her but you will have nobody to stay strong for you.”

“Both of my Niece and Nephew were murdered: Tommen and Myrcella. I know they were not my children but the death was very rattling-”

“-And with Margaery dying so recently too,” Willas pressed. “And Garlan in Winterfell and Loras here to protect her children... She should never have married Joffrey, Tyrion. Her children are not fit to be King and Queens. Alyse is a monster and Lucian is a little boy.”

“There is still Alysanne.”

“She is third in line for the throne, by then Alyse would have her own spawn. I wrote to Margaery to have Alyse fostered down at Highgarden before the King could... _corrupt_ her. I warned her but she never listened to me. She said she would never be parted from her children and I wish I had felt the same. My darling Helena might not have been taken from me so prematurely if I had stood up for my wife, but it had been her mother Sybell’s doing that persuaded her to send our daughter away. I should not have done it.”

Tyrion agreed that he should not, that Ser Willas should have known that the capitol was no safe place for a young girl, made less safer when her aunt the Queen died. All the innocent and good ones had been taken by the Gods, so why were the likes of his father, sister and the King still left in the world?

“The world is an unfair place,” Tyrion mused. “It takes the good and supports the evil. You are either one or the other. There is no middle ground.”

“So what are you?”

“For I am different: I am both.”

***

As far as weddings went, Tywin mused, this was an unsuccessful one for the family. It meant that the Tyrell’s stayed in King’s Landing longer than preferred and there was no woman for his heir to wed – and who would want to marry him now seeing as his last betrothed was murdered the night before the wedding and he was unhorsed by a boy of ten on a jousting field? Tywin had one person in mind who would marry Tyran, but it was too dangerous.

They still had another wedding to propose now that the King had accepted: between Prince Lucian and Lady Alayne. It was a good match, but one that her parents would not agree to easily; they did not want their daughter to stay and be Queen in King’s Landing, but Tywin would give them no choice.

He summoned his Granddaughter and his son to his solar the day after the murder. Most of the castle was in mourning and Tywin avoided leaving his chambers so he would not have to mourn the girl.

Alayne mourned her friend. Her eyes were red and her face pale. _Perhaps the prospect of being a Queen will make her forget about her dead friend._ Ever Tyrion wore black, but that was expected of him: she was to be his daughter.

“It is times like these that we cease good opportunities when they are thrust upon us. Would you care for some water, Alayne?” The twelve-year-old nodded and Tywin poured her a glass. “The Prince expressed his fondness for you valiantly Alayne. I am sure you are delighted.” She didn’t look delighted but she nodded and smiled and lied that it was an honour. “Then I am sure it will be more so when I tell you that the King has had the idea that you and Prince Lucian shall wed.”

“No,” hissed Tyrion. “No she shall not.”

A predictable response from his son, but an easy one to sway. “It is not your decision. The arrangements have been made. Your daughter will be a Queen.”

“I am her _father_ and you are only a Grandfather who only paid her notice when she became eligible for betrothals.”

“She has always been eligible for betrothals. Other offers will not match this one. There is no higher honour than being Queen.”

“Yes because Cersei loves it so much. Have you forgotten that Alayne’s companion has just _died_ a night before her wedding? Don’t you think that has had severe consequences on her?”

“Your daughter realises that the betrothal is a good one, do you not Alayne?”

He turned to the girl with the glassy look in her eyes, shaking as she held a cup of water. “I don’t want to marry him,” she said meekly, “I don’t like him.”

“That is often the case with marriages, but-”

“-This will not happen,” spat the dwarf. “Alayne is _not_ marrying the Prince. I don’t give a shit how different he is from his father, but being a Queen is a dangerous position – do you expect me to allow my _only_ daughter to-”

“-It is not your decision. The King has made plans with the Septon. Alayne and Prince Lucian shall marry on the morrow.”

“ _Tomorrow_!” Alayne gasped.

“Tomorrow,” Tywin confirmed. “Why should we waste decorations and entertainment? We have summoned the Tyrell's back to the castle for your wedding tomorrow.”

“Are you out of your _fucking_ mind?” Tyrion got out of his seat. “If you think I’m going to let my daughter marry-”

“-Father,” Alayne put a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. “Please don’t. I’ll marry him if that’s what the King and Grandfather want.”

_She sees sense,_ Tywin relieved. Perhaps she was not as brainless as he had first thought. She was certainly more intelligent about opportunism than her father.

“Alayne,” Tyrion breathed. He took Alayne’s hand and kissed both. “Don’t feel you have to do this. You don’t. You are still only a child.”

“I have to marry one day, and Lucian’s nice. And I’ll be in the capitol with you and mother and Tyran and Robb it – it won’t be _that_ bad.”

***

Tyrion stared at his daughter. Her mother was supposed to be Queen: she was supposed to be Joffrey’s wife and give him Princes and Princesses and now that burden was falling on Alayne who accepted it graciously and with dignity. She would marry on the morrow and now with her consent, the King’s approval and undoubtedly Prince Lucian’s agreement, the wedding would happen despite Tyrion’s pleads.

“I’d like to be Queen,” she announced. “I’d be a good Queen.”

He glanced back at his father: tall and triumphant behind his desk. _How has he done this_? Joffrey would never have agreed to this wedding if there was not an ulterior motive. And they Tyrion realised.

_He craves his son’s attention as he once craved Robert’s._ He would do anything to gain his son’s trust and love, even if it meant marrying below him to traitor’s Granddaughter and an Imp’s child. The imp kissed his daughter on the temple and smiled at her.

“At least give it more time,” Tyrion said to them both. “A month if you have to. Alayne has to look pretty and I have to buy her a present.”

His father considered it. “I’ll give you time once the castle has mourned for Lady Helena. In the meantime, we will improve the arrangements for the wedding and invite the appropriate guests. It will give you more time to approve the idea.”

_Yes_ , Tyrion agreed, _and find a way out of it._

 


	27. The Golden Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin and Alayne bond, news of Lucian's betrothal spreads at court and death takes another.

Three days passed since Prince Lucian won the tourney, Lyra’s kiss with Princess Alysanne and Helena Tyrell’s fate being destroyed in the hand of her own cousin.

Two days passed since Lord Tywin proclaimed that Alayne would wed Prince Lucian and Robb’s thirteenth name day.

And on the final day, death came to the castle and took another.

***

Alayne seldom spent time alone with her Grandfather; he had more time for Tyran than he did for his only surviving Granddaughter. So it came as a surprise to Alayne when the squire of the Hand of the King arrived at Alayne’s needlework lesson with a message from Lord Tywin that Alayne go to his chambers immediately for he had the desire to walk the grounds with her. Alayne agreed to walk with her Grandfather; she had very little option in the matter.

Alayne wondered what Lord Tywin would want with her. It was likely not to be a friendly walk – he wanted something from her. Why else would he call upon her? She suspected that it was related to her betrothal with Lucian and not to do with him giving her his condolences for the friend that was found brutally murdered in her chambers. Alayne wore black to mourn for her friend, which was commented on by Lord Tywin.

“You were close with Lady Helena?” He asked upon her arrival at his solar.

“I was, yes Grandfather,” she replied politely. “I miss her.”

“I am sure. Shall we walk?”

He held out his arm for her take and uncomfortably, she linked with him. Lord Tywin led her through the hallways and down staircases in painful silence. Alayne thought to start conversation, but it was he who wished to speak to her, not Alayne. She allowed him to begin conversation, and he did when they set foot into the grounds of the castle: the beautiful gardens preserved by snow.

“I never thought that my son would produce children born into a marriage,” confessed the Hand of the King. “So you can imagine my surprise when he provided House Lannister with _three_ , especially when two are as appropriate as yourself and your brother.”

It took little mystery to work out which brother he was inferring to. “It is kind of you to say so, Grandfather.”

“Do you understand why I am wedding you to Prince Lucian?”

“Of course Grandfather; as a girl I cannot inherit, and as my Grandfather and head of House Lannister you wish to see me married well, and who better to wed me to than Prince Lucian: our future King? It will be an honour to wed him, Grandfather; he is handsome and brave and kind and loyal.”

She sung her son and sewed her thread just as her Grandfather wanted her to, and he gave her an approving nod. “And you will do your duty and promptly give the crown heirs.”

“I look forward to giving the Prince many sons.”

***

Alayne was intelligent – Tywin would give her credit for that. She also knew how to please people, knew her courtesies as well as her mother and how to get what she wanted. She had the best traits from her mother and father, and fortunately her looks from the former parent also. Alayne would not quite be so good at court if she was as hideous as her father.

“Which prompts me onto the question of your moon blood. Have you bled yet?”

Alayne pursed her lips, clearly at discomfort. “No Grandfather.”

“When do you think you will?”

“I am twelve and mother says I should bleed soon.”

But her own mother had not bled until she was three-and-ten, and Alayne would be married in the early weeks of that nameday. If she had not bled in time for her union they may be at a disadvantage but Lord Tywin was committed not to allow that to be one.

“I am pleased to hear you say so. I entrust you still have your maidenhead?”

“Of course Grandfather.”

“And you must not let your father sway you from the idea of this betrothal between the Prince and you; you are intelligent enough to see that this is the most substantial offer you will ever receive. You cannot wed higher than the heir to the Iron Throne no matter who you are. Your father does not wish to see you on the Iron Throne because he believes it will endanger you, but I fail to see what danger you could stumble upon as Queen.”

“I agree, Grandfather.”

“And with I as your Hand.”

***

Alayne found her Grandfather’s ulterior motive. _He plans to outlive King Joffrey._ By putting his Granddaughter on the Iron Throne, knowing that her husband was fonder of her than she was of him would give her power over the little Prince. Alayne found herself with the urge to smile, but had the better idea not to. Lord Tywin wanted to ensure that he would still be the Hand if he outlived King Joffrey and was manipulating his Granddaughter into giving him his position. Alayne was not dim witted though.

“I do hope that Prince Lucian and I don’t become King and Queen for many years yet, Grandfather, until King Joffrey is at _least_ eighty, and I don’t want to be rude, but you’ll be dead by then.”

The Hand cleared his throat. “Figuratively speaking, if the King were to die-“

“Let’s not speak of such grave matters Grandfather; we shouldn’t talk about my dearest and only cousin’s death. It would be very sad to see King Joffrey die and I hope you never get to see it either.”

***

Tywin had been so focused on his Grandsons that he had forgotten about the auburn haired Granddaughter who knew how to play men at court as if they were a high harp. Tywin looked down at Alayne fondly while she stared around at the scenery. She may not look as if she had the brains of a Lannister, but the Gods had blessed her with them and the skill of strategy neither of her brothers had to her extent.

“Neither do I,” Lord Tywin stated. “But past Kings seem to have _very_ short life spans.”

“Yes,” agreed Alayne. “But their Queens do not.”

“Are you forgetting Queen Margaery?”

“I include Queen Margaery; she had a longer reign than the traitors Kings of Westeros.”

Lord Tywin looked smug. “Traitor Kings, by which do you classify Robb Stark?”

“He was a traitor undoubtedly,” Alayne stated. “But I’m not saying what he fought for was wrong.”

***

Tyrion was thwarted that Alayne agreed on wedding Prince Lucian. _Why?_ Was it power that she wanted? More recognition other than being Alayne Lannister: companion to the Princesses and sisters of the future Wardens of the North and West. If it was power or more recognition, Tyrion would wed her to a High Lord _away_ from the King and in safety.

He was disappointed that, after everything, it would result in his daughter being used in the same position as her mother had been, and who was to say that the King wouldn’t take her for himself as he did his other mistresses? Rumours spread that he already had a bastard in Fleabottom and one being raised in the Stormlands, both unacknowledged and males, their mothers suspiciously dying in the birthing bed. What if he would sexualise Alayne in these ways, or exploit her as he did Sansa?

When he had these realisations, returning from his father’s solar with Alayne yet another time when he called; he grabbed her by both shoulders, despite it being difficult as she stood as tall as an adult, and pulled her around to face him.

“Listen to me. I will make it so you don’t wed him.”

His daughter merely shrugged. “I don’t know; it won’t be _so_ bad. Lucian’s annoying and a little brat, but it means I’ll be Queen and you’ll be with me and one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Sweet child,” Tyrion said lightly, “how could you be Queen when you know nothing about it? There has been a winter older than your brothers, famine, wars and a plague that sweeps Westeros killing rich and poor alike. How will you rule the country?”

“I’ll have a lot of time to train by then, and Grandfather and King Joffrey will train me to be Queen. It won’t be so bad.”

She knew nothing. She didn’t realise how terrible it would be for her to be Queen: to have Cersei sneering at her and her envy and the King always in her presence, being manipulated by him and Lord Tywin and the small council. Lucian would not mistreat her; Alayne was tougher than him and if either of them were to be cruel to each other, it would be Alayne who inflicted it.

“I don’t want you to be Queen,” Tyrion confessed. “I want you to stay safe.”

She reached down and kissed her little father on the cheek. “I will be safe Father – and if anything happens Tyran and Robb will protect me.”

Tyrion wanted to tell her that would only be the start of her troubles, but only told her that she had nothing to worry about. He did not want to lie to her about such an ordeal, but it seemed that he had no choice.

***

Alayne left her father to go to their family’s private chambers. She was wise enough to comprehend that being Queen would not be an easy position to main hold, but the thought of being more powerful and more important than her two brothers excited her. She should have gone to her chambers and finished the sewing work hr Septa assigned for her, but she knew her brothers would be in their quarters and she was so eager to tell them what would happen to her in a moon or twos time.

Their private quarters for their family were on the top floor in the tallest tower of Maegor’s Holdfast separate from everybody else’s. They had the tower to themselves and the entrance where Alayne’s parents slept. Their quarters were at the very top with Robb’s just along the corridor from them. Alayne and Tyran both shared a hall at opposite ends of the corridor.

Their living area was decorated in the Targaryen colours with newly added gold garnishes. The flooring and walls were red with golden flecks but the hearth was as black as Balerion the Dread. The three loungers and two armchairs were gold, the table mahogany and the curtains a rich crimson.

Her two brothers were sat by the hearth on the floor on the black and red rug. Tyran’s magnificent sword Peacekeeper lay by his side and was a great contrast to the six kittens that played between the two boys. Alayne frowned when she entered the room and approached them.

“What have you got?” Alayne demanded.

“Dragons. What do they look like, _stupid_?”

She kicked Robb and dropped to her knees. She extended her hand and picked up a tiny, white, fluffy kitten with great big blue eyes which nipped her finger playfully.

“Aunt Cersei gave them to me for my nameday,” Robb grinned. “Cousin Tommen loved kittens and one of his cats Lady Whiskers had kittens whom had six kittens which she gave to me. I don’t know how she expects me to look after _six_ kittens, not with sword practice and riding and all this mourning we have to do for Helena.” He looked at Tyran gravely. “And _he_ doesn’t even care about her.”

“I do care,” he muttered. “She was to be my wife.”

“She was my best friend,” Alayne added. “It was horrible – really horrible.”

A silence passed around the three siblings and the white kitten climbed up onto Alayne’s shoulder. Robb scratched it between its ears and smiled at his little sister.

“You can have that one; it’s not playing like the other ones.”

“Really?” Alayne smiled. “Can I name her? What are the other ones called?”

“Well, this is Arya for our Aunt Arya. She always said she was scraggy and skinny so I chose the scraggy and skinny black kitten to be her. And this brown one is Jaime. This grey and white one I thought Grey Wind because Uncle Robb’s Direwolf was called Grey Wind-”

It was needless to say that come nightfall, Robb and Alayne’s kittens had mysteriously disappeared.

“-Did you have to name your kittens after family?” Tyran asked. “No one will like it if you name them after mother’s family.”

“Well I don’t care and you can leave if you don’t want to play with mine and Alayne’s kittens.”

“Robb, you’re three-and-ten you are too old to play with kittens.”

Robb ignored his brother. “And these two are Rhaegar – the white one – and Baelor: the big black one. Yours is a girl. She was Margaery but you can change it if you want.”

“Sapphire,” Alayne smiled. “Because of her eyes.”

Robb frowned. “I wouldn’t have given her to you if you were going to give her a shitty name like Sapphire.”

“Oh shut up. You’ve given your cats names that no one will allow – King Joffrey should have you walk the Traitor’s Walk for honouring the dead Stark’s and Targaryen’s after your beasts.”

“They’re your family!” Robb shouted. “You’re Alayne of the Houses Lannister _and_ Stark – mother made sure you knew and respected that.”

“I do respect it,” Alayne said calmly, “but I’m not going to get into trouble for-”

“-Naming a cat for our Aunt Arya?” Robb laughed. “What have we got to lose anyway? We’re kids!”

Alayne had hoped to reveal to her brother that she would be his Queen soon in a better way. “Actually, I’m going to be crowned Princess in a couple of weeks.”

Robb frowned. “Oh, so Lucian wasn’t bullshitting me then?”

“No.”

Tyran – clearly shocked and somewhat angry about the news – twisted his body around to his sister. “You’re wedding the Prince? Then how come – how can’t I... Since _when_?”

“Yesterday since he gave her his favour,” Robb sniggered. “Do we have to start calling you ‘your Grace’ now?”

She straightened her back and her fluffy white kitten with the shining blue eyes slipped from her shoulder and landed in her lap with a quiet THUMP. “Yes, and you should be nicer to me too since I’ll be Queen one day.”

“You better be a good Queen,” Robb said, “if you become Queen, does this mean you could name me Stark instead of Lannister?”

She tensed. “I suppose so.”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know, but won’t it upset mother and father if you do that?”

“Why would it upset mother? It might make her cry, but a lot of things do and it will be a good thing. Could you name me Hand of the King, have me marry a beautiful girl – _ooh_! Would you unname mother’s family as traitors? I think she’d love that.”

“Nothing’s even been confirmed yet,” Tyran said gently, “Alayne can make her decision on that when she’s actually the Queen.”

“She should do; they’re _her_ family as much as mine,” Robb exploded.

“When I’m Queen I can do what I want,” she said with a smile, “and that means I can stop you from being Lord of Winterfell so you should be nice to me for now on if you want a nice home.”

“Of course your Grace,” Robb mocked.

***

Alysanne found the company of Lyra a comfort. They would share a bed together, the northern Lady would kiss the southron Princess occasionally, and hold her in her arms, stroke her golden hair and despite the coughing and spluttering fits, would tell Alysanne how beautiful she was. Alysanne still found it surreal that she had bedded a woman before she kissed a man. Perhaps she didn’t want to kiss men! Perhaps she wanted to live out the rest of her days, frolicking and kissing women where and when she pleased. Certainly if the girl was Lyra she would have no complaints, but Alysanne was a Princess, her father was the King. Their relationship could not go any further than this: a mere secret.

And Alysanne hated that, because all she wanted was to tell people the truth. She loved women. She knew that now.

***

Tyran once recalled the story of how Aemon Targaryen joined the Kingsguard to protect his beloved sister Naerys after she married their brother Aegon the Unworthy and Tyran hoped he could do a similar thing - not join the Kingsguard because he loved Alayne the same was Aemon loved Naerys, but because he loved Princess Alyse and by joining the Kingsguard, it meant surrendering Casterly Rock and not being separated from her.

But that was as likely to happen as the King acknowledging the bastard boy from Fleabottom he had fathered a few days back that Alyse had snuck out to visit.

“He’s an ugly little brute,” Alyse told. “With dark hair, dark eyes and a bony face. Nothing that a Prince should be. The whore named him Tyraxes because she thought it was funny because Joffrey Velayron’s dragon was called Tyraxes. Father should have the monster murdered if he didn’t keep refusing that the child wasn’t his. Then there’s the other one in Fleabottom and the girl in Storms End.”

“I didn’t know he had three bastards. Everyone says there are two.”

“Do you think people will keep quiet if they find out he has a bastard _son_? Seven hells Tyran I thought you were smart. No. Only Lord Tywin and Grandmother know he has bastards, but I think Uncle Tyrion knows too. He has two sons: Tyraxes and Peter and a daughter called Carla. If Lucian dies without an heir people might rise and make one of the bastards King after father dies.”

“Now that Alayne’s marrying Lucian she’ll give him a son.”

“He’s too weak, everyone said so.”

 _Said._ She still clung onto the hope her brother would die soon and without an heir so that she could be Queen once King Joffrey died. She was so deluded by the dream she actually believed it and got angry when Tyran wouldn’t.

“When I’m Queen no one can stop us being together,” she announced as she took his hand openly in the corridor. “And you’ll give me so many children any claim against father’s bastards will be nothing. Casterly Rock can rot and crumble away until our second son becomes old enough to inherit and you’d stay here with me in King’s Landing and we’ll rule the country.”

It made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and he was unsure if it was because he was so excited at the prospect or so terrified.

***

Alayne and Robb would not stop discussing Alayne’s betrothal. Robb kept asking her for land and gold and swords when she became Queen and she would laugh and insist that it would be a long wait. Sansa hoped it would be a long wait: decades and decades until both Alayne and Lucian were silver haired and old and she would only sit on the throne for a few years. By then, Sansa hoped for long summers, no deadly plague and good harvest and crops so Alayne would have little to stress about. But Sansa knew better than this: whatever was the best for people, it was never allowed. The Gods blessed the bad and punished the good.

Sansa seldom spoke during dinner and left promptly once the meal was finished. Tyrion was not far behind her after she left, closing the door behind them into their chambers.

“Alayne thinks you are angry with her,” Tyrion announced.

“I’m not angry with her. I’m angry with your father and the King and your sister for making this match. Tyrion, Queen is the last thing I want for Alayne. Make them stop.”

“She was supposed to wed today. We’re lucky father agreed to postpone it a few moons until Alayne has mourned appropriately for Helena. This could be as long as two weeks or two moons.”

“Long. When I was twelve all I wanted was to be Joffrey’s Queen. Now my daughter is twelve and all she wants is to be Joffrey’s sons Queen.”

“Joffrey and Lucian are not the same.”

“Thank the Gods. Why are you supporting this marriage? Joffrey is a beast and you want to allow our sweet daughter to marry into his family?”

“I am trying to be positive about this and the Gods know I am finding this more difficult than either of us. Alayne is my darling child – Gods I might even call her my _favourite_ child if I had been raised as equals with Jaime and Cersei. I do not want her to be Queen. I do not want her to marry Lucian. If I had it my way I would rather she marry no one and become a Septa. If you think I want our daughter abused as you were then you clearly do not know me after fifteen years of marriage.”

He was right; Sansa knew Tyrion loved their daughter immensely and her being put in a prominent position in court was the last thing that he would wish on their daughter.

“You once told me that you loved me,” she said slowly, “do you still?”

“With every passing day. I make up for the love you will never feel for me.”

“You know I never can and never will love you, and I hope that one day I will grow to love you for the sake of our family. But by the Gods I love our children to death. I would support them through anything and if Alayne wants to marry Lucian then... We need to protect her.”

***

“That is easier said than done,” Tyrion returned.

Protect Alayne from whom exactly? The King? Her husband? Cersei? Tywin? The Gods? _Herself_? And with who? She had no household guards that were not under Tywin’s employ. Sellswords would only protect her for a high price and the only one he would trust to protect her was Bronn who had sword his sword to her brother and did a shit job of it in his age.

“When your father dies, his men go to Tyran.”

“And my father has proved relentlessly that he does not mean to leave the living for another good decade or two.”

“He is not immortal. His land and men will fall to Tyran when he turns sixteen which is in eighteen months and Robb gets Winterfell in exactly three years. We can try and protect her in eighteen months; we have been doing that for twelve years haven’t we?” He agreed that they had. “And I would rather die than see one of my children harmed. Do you understand that?”

Tyrion placed a gentle kiss on his wife’s cheek. “I do see that, my darling, I do.”

“So we’ll protect her.”

That went without saying.

***

_“Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”_

She had thought that it would be Margaery Tyrell; she had taken sweet Joff from her and given him four children but had died a frozen Queen. Joffrey refused to wed but frolicked with whores like his acclaimed father and his heir was to marry her pretty niece Alayne.

Cersei poured herself a cup of wine in her solar and laughed. That witch was wrong. Alayne could not take all that she held dear; she was a little girl who she could soon manipulate once she became Lucian’s. Her strong and healthy Joff would not die before she did and Tyrion: her Valonqar, would not kill her; he was old and weak and growing fat with food and wine. He could not kill her even if she was already dying.

Cersei held her cup of wine in the air. “Dear old witch: may all your prophecies remain bullshit.”

***

The previous plague was called the Grey Plague and was accompanied by Grey Scale. This plague they called the Golden Plague as it wiped out hundreds more people than the former and killed them quicker and made them sicker too.

It had spared the Red Keep until now. It was only time until it took somebody.

Maester Qyburn told her she had three days to live and that had been three days ago. On the morning of the third day when she opened her eyes she was shocked to still be alive, and so was her love Lady Lyra Mormont who had remained by her side for three days straight, offering her comfort when needed and kissing her softly, careless of the consequences it would have on her.

“Good morning,” Lyra whispered from beside her in the bed.

Although Alysanne enjoyed the ever present company of Lyra, but that was before Alysanne had discovered her illness was due to the Golden Plague. The Princess would not have Lyra die because of her, no matter how tough she seemed she could not beat this plague.

“Lyra, what have I said about you sleeping beside me? You need to stay away or you’ll die too.”

“If you died I would never forgive myself if you had not died in my arms.”

Alysanne hit her lightly giggling. “You love me.”

“Do I?” Lyra challenged.

But Alysanne’s face turned grave. “You need to get me my father and my sister. Maester Qyburn was good for not telling them until I decided, but I can die – any – second – now.”

She keeled over the bed as she spoke her last words, spitting up blood and organs all over the stone floor. She had been like this the past two days and last night had been the only night of sleep she had and she thought she would die that night.

Lyra pulled her back onto the bed and wiped her bloody mouth with a handkerchief.

“Sister – Father – bring – them.”

***

They had dried fruits and oatmeal to break their fast that morning, and iced milk and honeyed wine as well as water and Dornish Red for their father if he wished to start drinking early that morning. He seldom did and it was usually Alyse who would drink a cup early in the morning and one before bed every night.

She seated herself at their table opposite her little brother who sat to their father’s left as opposed to down the opposite end of the table as they used to. Alyse had never seen them laugh with each other before. Often they were arguing and shouting and their father would strike him and he’d rush out the room. Alyse had the sense of something suspicious occurring that morning.

“Father’s taking me hunting next week!” Lucian announced to his sister.

“Hunting what, kittens and puppies?”

“And he’s going to take me hunting for a whole _month_ when Alayne has my baby, every time he says! And – and he’ll teach me how to catch boars and set traps! He’s never done that with _you_ before, has he Alyse?”

“I’ve taken your sister hunting many times before,” King Joffrey informed as he picked at his dried apricot. “But never for a moon – she should be jealous.”

“Immensely,” she replied sardonically. “When you _finally_ marry Alayne.”

“You’re just jealous because you’re not marrying anyone.”

She glanced at her father. “Oh father, please marry me to someone quickly. I am fourteen-years-old, I am ready to be wed. Please marry me to a darling little red haired Lord who sings so angelically in the sept so you can take me hunting and set traps. Oh please, oh please, oh _please._ ”

“You’re just jealous,” Lucian snapped.

“Immensely.”

***

They were always arguing: his ‘darling’ children. Joffrey’s mother had told him that children were a blessing and that he, his brother and sister were the best things to have happened to her. _If you loved them so much mother, then why are they dead?_

Joffrey often thought about Margaery. He thought about her when he broke his fast with his children in the morning and when he supped with them at night. He thought about her when their children argued, when Alysanne made just decisions at court and when Alyse made strategic choices on the throne and when Lucian won the tourney. When he fucked whores he thought of Margaery, after discovering the three bastards he had fathered he thought of Margaery and how he betrayed her, and as he sat by his youngest daughter’s bed, watching her cough up blood and organs, he thought of his own mother and despite the fondness he felt for Alysanne, he could not save her.

“It would have been better if you had told me as soon as you knew,” was one of the immediate things Joffrey told her. “We could have given you longer.”

“There – was – nothing.”

She took the King’s hand. It pained him to see his middle child lying in bed, as pale as her bed sheets and the life drained from her face, coughing up blood and knowing that there was nothing he could do to save her.

“I advise you to keep your distance, your Grace,” Lord Tywin advised. “It would be a great tragedy to lose you too.”

“Please don’t leave me father,” Alysanne croaked, staring up at him with the familiar green eyes. “Please.”

Joffrey would have taken his Hand’s advice if Alysanne had not kept a firm grip on his own physical hand. Instead he smiled awkwardly and pretended not to be disgusted when specks of blood splattered on his own arm.

“Where’s Alyse?” Alysanne asked. “I want my sister.”

“I told her not to see you.”

“Why?”

“It won’t be good for her to see you like this, and you don’t want her to get ill like you, do you?” Alysanne shook her head. “Good.”

“I’m going to die, father.”

Nodding: “I know.”

“I’m sorry.” He frowned at her. Was she apologising for dying? That was not her fault. “If it wasn’t for me, mother would still be alive. She was skating on the ice because I begged her to. I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t to know what would happen,” Joffrey said quietly, “I don’t blame you for her death. You didn’t push her under the ice and made her freeze to death.”

“I’ll be with her soon. Where’s Lucian?”

“He didn’t want to come.”

Alysanne sniffed. “He’s a cunt.”

Joffrey had been mad at Lucian when he refused to visit his sickly sister. He cried when Joffrey shouted at him, that it would be the last time he would ever speak to his sister again, but he wept and ran off back to his chambers like the weak little boy he was. Joffrey would have allowed Lucian to visit his sister, but not Alyse; she was the only hope of sitting a good ruler on the throne after him.

She died after that, her lips parted in anticipation to speak.

He had not expected it. Her eyes were still open but she was paler than she had been before, her throat rasping for breath and her eyes stared blankly at the canvas on the ceiling.

Grand Maester Qyburn pushed the King out the way and explored Alysanne’s body for a sign of life, but it was futile and he looked at the King with a momentous expression on her face.

“She’s gone.”

Joffrey released her hand and laid it on her stomach. It was impossible to fathom that one of his children had gone, and Alysanne of all of them: his second favourite child who would make him laugh at dinner and enthral him in the stories she would tell him about her day and the songs she could play on her harp.

“I’m sorry your Grace,” Lord Tywin expressed. “She was a good child.”

“She was better than good,” Joffrey muttered. “She was the best thing I gave to the world.”

“We must inform the city. Grand Maester Qyburn, call upon the citadel to ring the bells for the Princess. The castle must go into mourning appropriately, ensure that they do so.”

“Of course my Lord.”

Maester Qyburn left the room bowing to the King and to his Hand but Joffrey did not watch him leave. He kept his eyes on his thirteen-year-old daughter who lay rigid on the bed, one hand on her stomach the other by her side as if she had been grasping for life.

“When Tomas died I hated Alysanne,” Joffrey confessed to his Grandfather. “I prayed the Gods would take her and return me my son. Now I would sacrifice my last living, weak son for Alysanne.”

“Prince Lucian is your heir, your Grace.”

“If we followed Dorne’s line of succession Alyse would be Queen after me, as she should be. Alysanne’s death has only made me realise it more.”

“Then your House’s name would lose the throne.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Joffrey challenged. “But that’s now how it works, is it? Even if Alyse inherits before Lucian, she takes the name of Baratheon as does her husband though I hate to share the name with my traitor Uncles.”

“For the Baratheon’s I would agree so, your Grace.”

Joffrey scoffed. “My father had enough bastards to keep the name going for centuries if he decided to legitimise them all. They say my son will give my cousin no heirs once they wed, what a sad and lonely, tragic life they will lead,” he muttered bitterly. “And it is nothing they do not deserve.”

The King took one last look at his daughter and crossed her chambers to the door. When he put his hand on the brass knob he heard the bells ringing and felt his stomach shake around in his stomach. _So she’s really dead._ He could not believe that she had truly gone. She was still a child.

There was weeping on the other side of the door. With his stomach still in his body the King flung the door open and confronted a quivering little Lucian whom had his ear pressed against the solid oak door, tears spilling down his chubby little cheeks. And Joffrey wasted no time in extending his hand and giving him a blow to the face.

His child stumbled back, clutching his face sobbing. The King stormed on him and hit him another time, then another and one to the nose. He seized his son by his golden chain and pushed him against the stone wall, the smell of blood invading his nostrils from the child he hung against the wall that he wished was not truly his.

“It should have been you that died,” he sneered in his son’s face, their foreheads touching, and Joffrey’s spit splashing Lucian’s face. “Not her. You are not fit to be King. You are not fit for this _life_. I would kill you in front of the Gods if it meant your sister was returned to me. You make me sick. Get out of here.”

He released Lucian with force that knocked him to the ground. The Prince scrambled up, scraping the wall with his fingernails for support and ran down the corridor, his cries clearly audible from his sister’s chambers.

***

Alyse was with Tyran when she heard the bells.

She had been in his arms on the lounger in Tyran’s chambers, resting her head against his chest, listening to the sound of his breathing and enjoying the cool air against her skin. He should have been married to Helena – he would have just woken up from their bedding a little while ago if she had not done what she did and she did not feel the slightest bit of remorse for what she did.

Until the bells echoed through the city.

She wanted to cry. Underneath it all she loved her little sister, more than their father and perhaps more than Tyran. But she couldn’t weep in front of Tyran; he’d know she was weak and he couldn’t think that. His arms tightened around her and she kissed her neck and she almost broke under the kisses but she warned herself not to and blinked back the tears that formed.

She wondered if Alysanne’s death was punishment for her killing Helena. It couldn’t be... Alysanne had been dying before she chocked the life out of Helena Tyrell, it couldn’t be connected nor a punishment from the Gods _surely_.

But if she didn’t believe it then why did the thought keep haunting her mind?

***

Sansa had heard so many gruesome tales from Robb about the body of the Princess: that it was green and she had no eyes and no lips, but at the funeral when Sansa lay a red rose at her feet, she looked as pretty and regal as she ever had done and the Silent Sisters had done a remarkable job of making her look as if she was merely sleeping and not a fortnight deceased.

Two girls had died within the space of one day: first it was Helena Tyrell whom was strangled in her chambers with armed guards at her door and then it had been Princess Alysanne who had caught the Golden Plague and died in consequence.

It made her fear for her children’s lives more so than she had done previously. She would not allow Tyran or Robb to fight in the yard without household guards and would not permit them or Alayne to leave the castle. Alayne had to have the newly employed guard Rowan from the Riverlands whom Sansa was certain she could trust because he had been sent to her by her Uncle Edmure, whom after fifteen years of being held captive in the Westerlands was finally allowed to sit the seat of his father at Riverrun.

“I’m surprised he agreed to it,” Sansa remarked. “And are there any consequences or terms to his release?”

“His daughter is being fostered at the Eyrie by Littlefinger and then will marry a Western Lord while the first born son must marry a girl of my father’s choosing.”

“He can marry Alayne: get her out of the capitol, stop her from marrying Lucian and away from the King’s clutches and go and live with family. Uncle Edmure would protect her for my mother’s sake if not for mine.”

“And do you really think that will be allowed?”

“No; Alayne’s wedding is already being prepared.”

He chuckled. “Do you think that’s the _only_ reason?”

Frowning: “No.”

She stared out of the window of their litter. “Four months and Alayne becomes Princess Alayne of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon. It’s sick.”

“I agree with you there,” Tyrion yawned. “But the Red Keep is safe from the plague where as travelling on the road to another castle would be dangerous, and we can hope that Joffrey gets this Golden Plague soon so he dies before he can hurt our daughter.”

“I prayed for his death for sixteen years,” she said coolly, “the Gods aren’t going to answer me now.”

He leaned over her lap and held her hand. She was dressed in the same black gown she had worn to mourn the late Prince Tomas and Tyrion himself wore the same black garments too; of course they would fit; he never grew.

“One day your prayers will be answered and life will be good and as you want it to be.”

He only said it to make her seem happier. Sometimes she wondered if she was still the same little girl he had married and had not changed or developed at all. She didn’t believe the lies they fed her and had not done since she first fed Tyran.

She was not a little girl anymore: she was a grown woman. She was a Stark of Winterfell and she would be remembered.

***

When Lyra was replaced at Alysanne’s bedside with the King, she ran to her small and shared chambers, hid under the covers and lay in silence. She couldn’t cry for the Princess, so had to bite back the tears that swarmed her eyes. Every bell that tolled reminded Lyra of the wasted months she could have had with Alysanne if only she had the bravery to admit her feelings – but how was Lyra to know Alysanne was just confused as herself and then felt the same way?

But Lyra could not openly mourn the Princess, so she did what Mormont’s do best: hide the truth in fear of death. She would never be as brash as her cousin Jorah and abandon the Seven Kingdoms at trouble, nor would she do as her oldest living sister did and lie about the bastards she mothered, claiming the father to be a _bear._ If the south taught Lyra anything, it was that telling a good lie was less dangerous than the truth, and the truth Lyra could expose would sully Alysanne’s good name and Lyra’s family. The Mormont’s had faced enough tragedy for a lifetime.

***

A long way across the Narrow Sea a woman awaited her mission. She had waited for this for fourteen years. She had trained for this for fourteen years. And now the day came.

“You are to execute the deaths of King Joffrey Baratheon, his Lord Hand Tywin Lannister and mother Cersei Lannister.”

“And who wants us to do it?”

“You ask too many questions, girl. A ship leaves Braavos for Westeros at sunrise. Tell no one who you are. The voyage will take you to Dorne where you shall pose as a merchant girl. Gold shall be given to you and you will execute these murders accordingly. The King first, then his Hand and then his mother. But you’ve planned this already.”

She looked at the man who had stayed silent as she was given her instruction: he had been her apprentice once and here she sat four-and-ten years later before him, fulfilling her wish to become a Faceless Man.

“Who shall you pose as?”

“A merchant girl,” then she thought of a name, “from the Stormlands selling wine. I will take my sister’s name.”

“And who are you?” The Kindly Old man asked her who had not spoken until now.

“No one,” she replied.

“ _No_ child. Who _are_ you truly?”

She had not spoken her true name for fourteen years but she never forgot it. It pained her to speak it though.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

“And what will you do, Arya Stark of Winterfell?”

“I will kill them."


	28. Kings and Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucian and Alayne wed and a Arya returns to Kings Landing

She sat in front of the mirror, staring at herself in the reflection. It was impossible to see her true self for the reflection in the mirror was nothing compared to the vision that everybody else had of her. They would tell her she looked beautiful; Queenly; a vision to behold, but truly she would never really know. She could be as disgusting as a victim of the plague but people would still tell her she looked lovely.

Lucian would always tell her she was beautiful. Every morning he would kiss her hand and tell her she looked ‘lovely’ or ‘radiant’ in her gowns and take her by the arm and escort her wherever she went, even if it was just along the corridor. If she was honest, he was irritating when he did it but she did not like being on her own after Helena’s murder and Alysanne’s death a few moons ago. On the morning of the wedding, Lucian was no different.

“My lady,” he announced when she entered the room with her mother on her arm, garbed in purple silk and a beautiful fur gown Alayne envied. “I have never seen you look lovelier.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” as she bowed to him and he kissed her ring. “You look very handsome too.”

“Not as handsome as you, my Lady.”

He was never accepting compliments, always giving them to Alayne and she never truly knew how to respond to them but smile and courtesy.

Prince Lucian lead her towards the small table which was draped in a Lannister crimson cloth. Alayne recognised it to be the same one that had been used for Tyran and Helena’s wedding and couldn’t help but remember the fate that bride had encountered the night before her wedding.

Then the gifts began. Mace Tyrell presented his Grandson and soon-to-be Granddaughter with an enormous, square, solid gold dinner bowl with each of the four houses they were part of: a Lannister lion, Tyrell rose, Baratheon stag and Stark Direwolf. Lucian was so thrilled by this gift that the young boy embraced his Grandfather and kissed both his cheeks. From Lord Tywin he gave the Prince their family cloak to wrap Alayne in, and to Alayne especially, he handed her a golden locket.

“It was found within my mother’s belongings,” Tywin reported. “I could think of no one better to wear it than you.”

Alayne took it from him. “Thank you Grandfather.”

“Alayne would you let me put it on?”

“I think you’d look rather silly if you did, your Grace,” Alayne smiled.

The guests gathered in the Queen’s ballroom Alyse had generously given to them to host the breakfast laughed out loud and Lucian joined in on the joke, brushing Alayne’s hair around her shoulder and fastening the locket around her neck. She was surprised that he did not try to kiss her or touch her neck, but sack back down and admired it on her. He did not tell her how beautiful she looked in it which she was grateful for.

Lucian received a golden crossbow from a Sealord of Braavos while his wife presented Alayne with a beautiful cream gown encrusted with pearls and diamonds. The Eyrie sent a diamond falcon Lucian ordered the servants to display in his and Alayne’s royal chambers. Lucian’s sister Alyse gave them both two Snow Bear cloaks bitterly (she had wanted one herself) while Alayne’s brothers presented them with two separated gifts. Tyran gave his new brother a Shortsword which he proudly announced he had made and paid for himself.

“What shall I call this beautiful sword?” Lucian asked the gathering.

 _Not Alayne. Anything but Alayne._ She gripped the chair arm in anticipation of being humiliated in front of the guests, but was relieved when Lucian did not name his sword for the girl he would marry this afternoon.

“Vermithor,” Lucian announced.

 _Of course,_  Alayne thought to herself.  _Robb names his kitten for a few dead Targaryen’s and like always, Lucian follows suit and outshines him._

“And this is from me. Sorry it’s not as good as a  _sword_ , but some of us aren’t as rich as the royal family.”

But Alayne loved Robb’s gift anyway: a white pair of dragon skin boots that Daenerys Targaryen – or so the fables told – wore when she landed at Dorne. He did not give Lucian anything, but the two friends exchanged a smile and Alayne dreaded to linger on what that smile might mean.

Cersei gave them a ship for them to sail on if they ever planned on travelling and Lucian gave his Grandmother the same gratitude that he showed Mace Tyrell when he gave them their plate. Joffrey barely looked at his son and Alayne when he gave Lucian his cloak he would later wrap Alayne in at the sept.

“Thank you father,” Lucian said softly, “for everything.”

The King didn’t say anything to his son, but spoke to Alayne. “Your parents will give you a better present than any of these others. It might make the marriage to my  _son_ ,” he spat the last word, “more bearable.”

On cue, Tyrion and Sansa approached the table, and Alayne smiled to see them. Amongst a crowd of one hundred unfamiliar but friendly faces, interaction with her parent’s delighted her.

“King Joffrey thought it appropriate if we were the first ones to present you with this present,” her father declared. “A crown.”

He had it presented on a purple cushion in the centre and placed it on the table before them. The room hushed to a silence and Alayne’s words were caught in her mouth. Tyrion smiled proudly while Sansa managed only a small smile.  _She still hates this but she can do nothing now._  Alayne admired the crown: a silver diadem, the same colour of her betrothed and Princess Alyse’s. It was of a similar design to theirs; as she was becoming a Baratheon it was really only fitting that she would have the stag antlers decorating it. It was larger than the one her Grandmother used to wear and the one Alyse currently wore. At the front and behind of the crown were small rubies. It was the grandest crown a Princess had ever worn.

Regaining her breath: “Mother, father... Thank you; it’s beautiful.”

“It’s a pleasure,” her father said, “you will look lovely in it this afternoon.”

She was sure that she would. Alayne would look better than anybody: she would inspire hundreds of songs and they would sing about her grace and beauty, the dress she wore and that magnificent crown that would sit atop her head. Alayne had wanted power, and she would now get it.

***

As they broke their fast on a gourmet feast of pastries, sweets, fruits, oatmeal, cakes, meats, wines and milks and every food imaginable suitable for breakfast, Tyrion found his daughter slipping through her grasp. Unmarried, he had been able to control her and keep her safe, but by becoming Princess Alayne Baratheon, she belonged to the crown to be used and manipulated and given heirs thrust inside her to be used and manipulated. That was not the life he wanted for his daughter, but it was the life she had been given and he was forced to support it and give his daughter a regal crown.

“Now that Alayne’s getting wed, when can I have Winterfell?” Robb pestered his father.

“How old are you? Remind me.”

“Fourteen.”

“Well you’ll inherit Winterfell on your sixteenth name day. You know that, Robb.”

“And I’ll leave you and become Robb  _Stark_  of Winterfell?”

“ _Robert_  Stark of Winterfell,” his father corrected.

“But I’ll be a Stark?”

Tyrion nodded. “Yes.”

Tyrion worried for his second son. Tyran he knew would be a sensible Lord once his father died: he would make wise decisions, judge right from wrong and do his duty as the Warden of the West, find a girl he wanted to marry and provide them with suitable names and titles until they too came of age. Robb on the other hand would probably only attend court meetings when it suited him, sleep with whores and remain unwed, legitimise his bastards to piss everybody off, raising them in Winterfell with names like Eddard and Catelyn and Brandon and take them travelling with him wherever he wanted to go and alarm the capitol whenever he would do such a thing. He had less sense that his brother, a quicker temper and brasher thinking.

Alayne on the other hand would make a good Queen when it came to that day, and Lucian would make a good King. Court would be joyful with singers and tourneys and grand feasts every day. They would not turn away starving small folk or lesser houses who wished to stay in the capitol. Together they had the potential of becoming the best King and Queen that Westeros would ever encounter. It was for the good of the realm and his daughter that Alayne would wed the Prince. Tyrion would have to put aside his worries and fear for his daughter and do what he always did best: make bitter comments about life and get o with it.

***

Sansa often sent away her daughter’s handmaiden so she could brush her daughter’s hair. Her mother Lady Catelyn had often done this and Sansa unintentionally found herself doing it to her daughter. After Alayne had been bathed and cleaned and wrapped thrust into her corset, Sansa dismissed her handmaidens, sat Alayne on her chair and began to brush through her hair.

“How do you want it?” Sansa asked, running the thick, boar bristle brush through her daughter’s long, thin hair.

“The handmaidens have already designed it: they want it wavy and piled on my head.”

“And how do you want it?”

“Do you remember how Queen Margaery used to have hers casually? It used to be parted in the middle and the sides of her hair pushed loosely upwards. Could you do it like that, please? I think Lucian will like it if I style it like his mother’s.”

“Of course,” Sansa smiled. “Do you like the Prince then?”

“I have to, don’t I?”

“I never liked your father when I married him. My mother never loved my father either, but they eventually did. Lucian is kind to you and very much loves you. You could do a lot worse.”

“He can be annoying,” Alayne admitted. “And he’s very young.”

“He is three months younger than you,” Sansa reminded. “You are both thirteen. Alayne you could have been wed a lot younger than now to a boy nowhere near as sweet as the Prince."

Her daughter knew she was right. Sansa had been close to marrying Joffrey if Margaery had not saved her from his clutches. She would rather Alayne marry Joffrey’s son than actually be Joffrey’s daughter. Alayne thought her betrothed an annoying little boy, but he was an annoying little boy who could keep her safe.

“Mother,” Alayne said solemnly, “tonight, after the bedding. Lucian and I will have to –  _I_  will have to.”

Sansa bent over and planted a kiss on the back of her daughter’s head. “It is when  _you_ are ready, not when he is.”

“But we’ll have to.”

Sansa had not told her daughter that she and Tyrion had not consummated the marriage on their wedding night and she began to wish that she had done. But it would be more difficult for Alayne if she did not consummate the marriage; it was a requirement for her as future Queen to provide the realm with heirs. It had not been so hard for her, but the quicker Alayne was with child the securer she became.

“Not straight away. You can stall it if you are nervous.”

“I’m not nervous. I just don’t know what to do.”

Neither did Sansa when it came to her wedding night. She would have endured it and let her well-experienced husband do the work, lay back and close her eyes. But Lucian was as inexperienced as Alayne and neither of them would have well depth knowledge what to do.

“There will be a bedding ceremony where you will be carried to your chambers-”

“-and have old men father and grandfather’s age stare at me and make rude comments. Robb told me last night trying to scare me.”

“Don’t listen to your brother,” Sansa advised. “He loves to annoy you as much as he actually loves you. Your brothers will protect you if anything happens.”

She looked at her mother fear-struck. “ _Gods_  will they be there?”

“That’s slightly inappropriate.”

“Will father and grandfather and – Gods – will the  _King_  be there?”

“Your father and grandfather wouldn’t, and I do not think your Grandfather would allow the King to be present. It will only be a few drunken men who will not remember what you look like under your gown by the morning. Lucian will share the same embarrassment: you can endure it together.” Sansa parted Alayne’s hair as she wished for her to do and began twisting it a little way back from her face. “No one would dare hurt you, my darling.”

“What about after the bedding ceremony? What do I do?”

“What your instinct tells you. You would take your husband to bed or he will take you and you’ll take it from there. Don’t let him force himself on you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Alayne stated. “Will it hurt?”

“For the first few times yes, but it won’t last long.”

“Why?”

“Because you are both children, after a few times you can take the pain better and it will last longer and be better for you. You may bleed the first time, but that is good; it confirms that you partook in the ceremony which everyone will be very happy about. But Alayne, don’t feel that it’s your duty to do it.”

“I just don’t want it to be awkward,” she confessed.

“You will both be awkward together. Turn your head to the right and I’ll twist your other side.”

Her ladies returned and took over from Sansa, tidying up the loose ends that she had missed, brushing it through, and twisting it at the ends so it hung in loose curls. Her new crown was crowned on her head, the hair they pushed through to make it look neater.

The gown her daughter was put in was utterly beautiful: a traditional ivory gown with layers and layers of silks and the bottom, scraping the floor was thick layer of snow bear fur, pearls decorating the bodice and diamonds down the sleeves. Alayne stood before the full length mirror and squinted for a good reflection.

The dress was heavy and tricky to breathe in, but even though Sansa did not wear such a tight corset, she herself found it difficult to breathe; so mesmerized by her daughter’s beauty she looked like a porcelain doll: pure and infallible.

“How do I look mother?” Alayne asked.

Tears filled her eyes as she looked at her thirteen-year-old daughter who looked too beautiful to be the age she was. She remembered back to her own wedding, she had run to escape it and felt she was watching her own daughter marry the Prince: the happy ending Sansa had dreamed of for a lifetime before it was given to her. She tried not to think of her parents as she gazed at her daughter who would have her father walk her through the sept and her mother to prepare her for the proceeding night. She had neither of those and was given to her husband by the foul King Joffrey.

“How do you look?” Sansa reiterated. “You’re breathtaking.”

***

When Tyrion saw his daughter he agreed that she was the finest beauty he had ever lay eyes on. She was tall and pale and slim, her ivory gown brought out her complexion, the red of her hair and the green of her eyes, the pinkness of her lips and every other beauty she beheld. He could scarcely believe that it was his own daughter towering over him about to be wed.

“Father you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 _I have: the ghost of my daughter._ “You look beautiful,” he told her. “You don’t have to marry him. We can run away and sell your dress – the Gods know it’s enough to feed a family for centuries – and start a new life away from all of this.”

As she always did, she bent down and pecked her father on the cheek. “I love you father.”

The words stung him like a stab with a sword. Perhaps a physical wound would hurt less than this. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“No.”

“It will be fine,” she promised him. “I’ll be fine.”

He doubted that. “How am I supposed to take your arm when you stand as tall as your brother’s and I only reach your waist?”

“I could crawl.”

“That would make for a funny song.”

Tyrion blamed his father for this wedding. It was his work, not Joffrey’s. Perhaps if his father lived to an age that suited him or died long before Sansa brought his children into the world their lives would be a lot better. He would not be marrying Alayne to the Prince. She would stay his and not the Realm’s, but there was nothing he could do but reach and take his daughter’s arm and walk her through the sept.

***

She glided through the sept as if walking on air. People turned as the grand doors opened, all silent and smiling as she walked between them all, honoured to be in attendance of the future King and Queen’s wedding.

Tyrion took her to the first step of the altar and kissed her hand. He removed her Maiden Cloak and went to stand beside his wife and eldest son while the Prince took the Lannister cloak from Robb and draped Alayne in the crimson and gold fur, taking one another’s hand and ascending the remaining steps to the High Septon where they stood before him.

“Let it be known that Alayne of Houses Lannister and Stark, and Lucian of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

“With this kiss I pledge my love!” The Prince’s high voice echoed around the Sept with volume Tyrion was surprised to hear from such a small child.

Alayne echoed his words and pulled her new husband into a kiss. Modestly, it was short but she performed it with such etiquette as if she had kissed many a boy before her husband.

The Kingsguard lead the procession through the sept. As Lucian’s mother had died, Tyrion was left with the honour of taking his sister Cersei’s arm and lead her after the Kingsguard. Sansa took Joffrey’s arm and after them walked Tyran and Princess Alyse, smiling at the guests as happily as if it was their own wedding,  _as much as he would like to believe it is._ Then followed Robb with Lyra Mormont and Lord Tywin with his sister Genna.

***

The feast was not as magnificent as it had been for Joffrey and Margaery but it was still one of the most expensive and illustrious weddings Sansa had ever attended.

There were singers and jugglers and fools and every food imaginable laid out for them. The new Princess and Prince sat above them all, laughing with each other and enjoying their feast. To see Alayne made Sansa happy and it helped make the wedding feast more enjoyable.

Her son’s were watching a juggling act and her husband was drinking with the Tyrell’s – a wise choice. Sansa did not mind being with her son’s for it gave her an excuse not to have to talk to the King or Cersei or Lord Tywin.

“Mother, may I have some wine?” Robb asked.

Sansa knew well that her son had drunk three cups at the breakfast  _and_  two cups in the corner with one of Princess Alyse’s handmaidens, but why should Sansa decline him?

“ _One_  cup,” Sansa said, passing her son the wine, “I was never allowed to drink as much as you when I was your age.”

“My sister’s the Princess; I can do as I want.”

“And I am still your mother which means you must do as I say.”

Robb tutted. “Mother, can I go and dance?”

“Of course,” she said.

She watched Robb down his cup of wine quicker than a boy of his age should ever be capable of doing and he sprinted off between the guests out of sight.

“Are you going to dance?” Sansa asked her remaining son.

“I don’t like dancing.”

“It’s your sister’s wedding. You have to dance.”

“If I dance with someone Grandfather will make me wed her."

She laughed. “No he won’t; I won’t let him.”

Derisively: “What power do  _you_ have over the Great Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock?”

“Lord Tywin is a seventy-seven-year-old man while I am much younger and fitter and likely to live longer than him and also mother to the future Lords of Winterfell and Casterly Rock and to a Princess now. You can dance with anybody you like, Tyran.”

She watched him glance towards the table where the King sat beside his last remaining daughter. A skinny, brown-haired serving girl was pouring the King a cup of wine while his child sat bored, stabbing at her food with her knife. Within an instant, Tyran was asking Alyse to dance.

***

Robb was wandering the party in search of someone. He didn’t know who, but he wanted someone to talk to and drink with. He looked for Ser Haelan but couldn’t find him. He saw his cousin: the late Tommen Baratheon’s daughter Cersei sat with the family from the east. He contemplated going to meet her and seeing Cathy whom he had last seen when she gave him a peppermint but decided against it and perched himself on a fountain a little distance away from the feast.

He began to unpeel the orange he swiped from a table, dropping the peelings onto the frozen water. He decorated the peelings into a flower, then glanced around nervously and swept them aside, ruining his artwork. He pulled a segment from the orange and popped it into his mouth, cringing at the sour taste it had.

“You should feed the scraps to the dogs,” a voice said behind him, “they never get fed.”

He recognised the girl to be one of Princess Alyse’s companions at court. She was Lysene, if Robb remembered correctly because he had kissed her sister in the room where all the dragon skeletons were kept. This girl was not as pretty as her sister, but not difficult to look at.

“I don’t think they like oranges,” Robb replied, peeling off the white shit that covered the fruit. “Who are you?”

“Lila,” she notified. The sister he had kissed was called Lily. “You know my sister, yes?”

“Yes,” said Robb.

“Would you like to know me?”

Her voice was thick with a Lysene accent but Robb had no difficulty in understanding her. “I – I suppose so.”

She walked around the fountain and stood before Robb. She took his hand and placed it on his breast. The orange fell from Robb’s hand onto the stones underneath his feet and he smirked at her.

“Your sister looked very beautiful today,” Lila whispered.

“Your sister doesn’t have as good tits as you,” he murmured back.

“Come back to the castle with me and you can see them.”

He had seen two girl’s breasts before: the first time was a girl called Hilary who was his sister’s handmaiden and the second was a girl from a family who had come to attend Alysanne’s funeral.

“Do you have a house name?” He asked her.

“No.”

“Then you ought to let me see more considering I’m a  _Lord_. Who knows: if you’re lucky I might give you a few dragons in gratitude.”

She closed in on him, pulling him to his feet. “Do I look like a fucking whore to you?” She spat.

“No, but I would  _fuck_  you like a whore.”

Judging him: “Take me to your chambers and you can show me how much your words mean, my  _Lord_.”

They were worth more than her family would ever hope to make in a lifetime. They were worth more than the dress that Lila and her sister Lily wore to the wedding combined. So he allowed Lila to take him to his chamber and he kept his word and fucked the Lysene handmaiden like a whore.

***

Noon soon turned into evening: the wild party dulled to an end as the sun began to set, transforming the grey sky to a magnificent orange. The bride and Prince danced together towards the end, giddy with the wine they had been allowed to have and the rich foods and the atmosphere. Tyran had been dancing with Princess Alyse and later with other Ladies who sought him out after seeing him dance with the Princess and Robb was not seen for the remainder of the evening.

“This has been a spritely wedding,” Tyrion remarked upon returning to his wife. “I hope you weren’t too... bored."

“Your sister came to speak with me,” Sansa said dryly, “as I was talking to Allyria Dayne, Cersei started pressing me about this wedding.”

“How wonderful that must have been for you,” Tyrion noted deprecatingly. “If it makes you feel any better, I tried to escape Mace Tyrell seven times, all of which he continued to pour me wine and talk about Alayne and Lucian and Helena’s death. He’s suspicious but he doesn’t have his daughter’s talent for keeping it a secret.”

Sansa frowned. “Margaery should have been here today.”

“I know,” Tyrion soothed, rubbing Sansa’s hand with his thumb. “But we’ve done our best for her: we gave her son a good bride to be Queen and kept him safe from Joff and his sister as well as we could.”

“I miss her. I remember my father reading a letter to my mother before you and your family rode to Winterfell from Mace Tyrell that we visit Highgarden to meet Margaery, Willas, Garlan and Loras and arrange a marriage between Robb and Margaery. Can you imagine how different our lives would be if my mother hadn’t thrown the letter in the fire.”

“Well your brother likely would have won this war and my head would be mounted on a spike and you would marry a handsome Lord and be Lady to their land, instead of stuck in King’s Landing as the wife of a second son whose own son will inherit his father’s land before him. And you would be married to Joff and it would be your son marrying a different girl today and our three children would not be alive.”

“Margaery would still be alive. So would my mother and brother.”

 _I would rather Margaery die a thousand deaths than having you forced to marry Joffrey._ He did not say it aloud; he did not dare upset his wife on what should be one of the happiest days of their lives.

Tyran returned to his family when a drunken Joffrey announced to the guests that the bedding ceremony would begin. The musicians began playing a quick and light tune and a mad rush to the Prince and Princess ensued, lifting them both off their feet: the men grasping Alayne roughly, the girls dragging Lucian along, giggling with their shawls around his neck.

“Go with her,” Tyrion muttered to his son.

“Father that’s disgusting.”

“She’s your sister. Go with her; she’ll be relieved with the support.”

***

Alayne was terrified.

She did not know any of these men. They grabbed her and threw her up on their shoulders, running with her through the hall and down the corridors to the Prince’s chambers. They were laughing and jeering but she was too frightened to listen to them. She grasped onto a man’s shoulders, terrified that she might fall off and break her neck as they ran up the stairs, crashing into each other.  _Don’t cry,_  she kept telling herself,  _they’ll think you’re powerless if you cry: they won’t support you as Queen._

The door to her new chambers was flung open where she was thrown roughly on the floor, grabbing the closest man to steady herself. They ripped at her gown, tearing the fabric and the embellishments. They pulled at her small clothes and ripped open her corset, exposing her to the cold. To say she was scared did not do justice to how she felt. Alayne did not attempt to conceal her body: she wanted to show that she was not embarrassed.  _I am a lion and they will not hear me roar._  She smiled meekly at their japes, ignored the groping of their rough hands and endured it all.

Tyran was with them which only made it worse. He lingered at the back looking away from his sister.  _He will not defend my honour._  If Robb was there he would beat the man who put his hand between her thighs even if he was twice his age and size, Robb would protect her. She was a fool if she thought Tyran would do the same.

She had never been so pleased to see the Prince: entering the room as bare as the day he was pulled from the Queen Margaery. The men bowed and left, shouting suggestions through the door to what the Prince would do to her. He looked as sheepish as she did and grabbed his small clothes from the chair and wrapped them around herself, and Alayne took the fur covers from her bed and pulled them around her body.

They were quiet for a long time, both unaware of what to say and what to do.

“The duck was nice,” Lucian said.

 _The duck – who gives a shit about the duck?_  “I don’t like duck.”

“Oh,” said the Prince, “oh I thought it was nice.”

The new Princess wanted her mother. She wanted to feel her arms around her neck, kiss her on her cheek and assure her that it was all going to be fine. The advice she had given her that morning were useless because she could not remember a word of it. She was mindless to it all, the only factor Alayne was sure about was that Lucian could probably hear her heart racing in her body from across the room and see her shivering – not from the cold but fright. Princess Alayne had never been so frightened before in her life.

“We – we need to do this,” the Prince spluttered.

“Yes,” Alayne agreed. “I – I don’t want to.”

“Me neither,” Lucian admitted. He crossed the room and sat on the bed beside Alayne. She shuffled away from him but he didn’t seem to mind. “If we just do it this one time, to seal the marriage would we have to do it again?”

“No,” Alayne decided. “Not until we want to.”

The golden haired Prince looked at her. “Father told me we should do it all the time so you give me lots of sons. He also tells me I’m a waste of space and that he wishes I was dead, so I don’t think I’ll-”

“-You’re not a waste of space, Lucian,” Alayne said.

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She was certain that it wasn’t; she had called him handsome and charming and gallant which was everything that boys wanted to hear. But perhaps it was his not his beauty or his grace that he wanted to be complimented on, but himself.

So she took his hand and placed it on the bare skin of her thigh. “If we like it we can do it more than once.”

“I’d like that.” She kept his hand on her thigh, massaging it with her knuckle. “Can I kiss you?”

He had never asked in the past, but then again, they had never been sat together naked before. “Yes you may.”

His lips were warm against her own as was the rest of his body. Alayne was cold but she enjoyed the warmth he provided her when he pulled the furs from around her shoulder. Alayne’s fingers moved to the ties around his waist and undid them, dropping his small clothes to the floor.

“Now?” Lucian whispered against her lips.

She brushed her mouth against his. “Now,” she confirmed.

***

While a lot of the host went to partake in the bedding ceremony, the King remained in the hall, drinking his wine and eating his food. His daughter was missing from the seat beside him and had not returned since Tyran had asked her to dance and neither had Robb since the beginning of the feast. The weather turned cold and a majority of the guests returned indoors to the inside seating. It was strange that the King remained outside because he hated the cold weather more than anybody. Lord Tywin was amongst those who made haste to move inside, and with his daughter on his arm, went to Sansa and Tyrion’s table.

“Where are your son’s?” Cersei asked. “They haven’t gone to undress their sister have they?”

 _As Jaime undressed you._  “Robb is making friends, I am sure.”

“Making friends with the Princess Alyse’s handmaiden’s cunt I am sure,” Cersei snarled. “If your daughter is as unchaste as your son-”

“-Are you inferring that my children are-”

“-fucking around like their father, yes.”

“And their father before them,” Tyrion retorted. “Have you seen or heard much of Jaime, sweet sister? I hear he came to visit the sept when Tommen died: a place that you seldom left.”

Her eyes flickered with hate and she released the arm of her father. “I’m sure if Jaime returned to King’s Landing we would know about it.”

“I would hope so too,” agreed Tywin, separating the wrath between his eldest and youngest child. “If you see Tyran before I, tell him I require him in my chambers early on the morrow.”

“He’s riding with Ser Garlan tomorrow,” Tyrion informed. “As is Robb.”

"Well," said Lord Tywin, "Ser Garlan will have to wait."

If Tyrion thought he was having a dramatic climax with his sister and father, it was nothing compared to the northern Lady, seated beside her Lord husband, and what she had seen.

***

She had seen her.

The same serving girl that had poured the King his wine was doing it again. Sansa had been staring at her while her good sister and father interacted with her little husband.  _I know you,_  Sansa realised.  _Who are you?_

The girl was perhaps older that twenty but younger than Sansa. She had dark, thick hair and was small and skinny and looked as if she did not suit the brown gown she was adorned in. Her hair was simple to suggest she was of low birth, as was her face. Sansa knew this girl from somewhere, but could not see where.

***

She had seen her.

Talking with Lord Tywin and the Queen, she had seen her sister Sansa from a lifetime ago and she had been watching her as if she recognised the girl she had lost when their father had been executed. She had not changed at all and stood tall and stern and strong with her vibrant hair and pale face.

Arya Stark had expected to encounter her sister on her journey; she thought she was married to King Joffrey when she first arrived and was confused when people said the Prince was marrying the blood of a traitor. Joffrey’s Queen was absent but his daughter who looked everything like Joffrey and the son who looked nothing like his father were there. Arya wondered if she should poison them as well.

She poured the King wine all night when he instructed her to. He did not recognise her; he would not assume that the girl who threw his sword into the Trident would serve him wine at his son’s wedding feast. But there was something in his face that registered that he knew Arya from somewhere.

“Do I know you?” He asked half way through the feast once his daughter had left. “Did I fuck you in a whore house?”

“No your Grace,” Arya replied.

“Hmm... Where are you from?”

“The Stormlands, your Grace.”

“Where?”

“Evenfall, your Grace. I was a serving girl to the Tarth’s.”

The King huffed. “But I know you. Who are you?”

“No one.”

“A bastard?”

_No I am the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully. I am the farthest away from a bastard as possible, but I am today because at last I am going to murder you and I will take great pleasure in watching the life slip away before you and watch you cry for your mother._

He did not speak to her for the rest of the feast, but did when the guests moved into the seating inside. He grabbed her wrist as she poured his wine, spilling some onto the table. She winced under his grasp, a sudden pang of terror shooting through her body as she thought the King had recognised her.

“You were my daughter’s companion: the Mormont girl.”

She did not know the Mormont girl and the King could not discover the truth on the morrow because he would be dead.

“Now I am a serving girl, your Grace.”

“A serving girl to a feast as big as this. My spawn doesn’t deserve a feast as grand as this one. If it wasn’t for the love I felt for his mother – or the affection or whatever the fuck I felt for her – the need to fuck her mostly – I would turn him out like my bastards. My father hand dozens of bastards. I have three. All three of them would make a better King than the sickly bastard who’s about to stick his prick between my cousin’s legs.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes,” Joffrey frowned. “Sansa Stark – the red haired one – married my Uncle – the imp – and makes the girl my cousin. Are you stupid?”

“I am sorry your Grace,” Arya said, “I was not aware Sansa had children.”

She imagined her sister with ten children and wed to a handsome man who owned a lot of land and a big castle. Their son’s would be famous fighters and their daughter’s infamous beauties. When someone told her Sansa had wed the Imp she didn’t believe it. She could not imagine Sansa marrying such a beastly man especially after what his family did to theirs.

“Three. Both her son’s make better King’s than mine.  _Lucian_  I chose for him. It was a good name wasted on a child like him. He will not live long enough to give his wife heirs so my daughter will be Queen. She will make a good Queen I know.”

“Tell me about Sansa’s children,” she asked hurriedly. “Your Grace.”

The King was clearly drunk, slurring his wines and drained the cup of wine. “More,” he demanded. “I – I don’t know what you – want – want me to say. She – Her – Their children – my cousins – I don’t know – the little one Throbb -  _Robb –_ Robb is a good fighter. Tyras – Tyr _an_  is smart.”

As he spoke her fingers fumbled for the vial inside her pocket. She pushed off the cork lid and took the King’s cup when he asked and poured the contents of the poison in his cup. She poured a small amount of wine to ensure the King would drink it all and drink it quickly so nobody else could, and she curtsied and handed it to the King.

“Who will be Lord of Winterfell?”

“Who the fuck do you think – the one named – named for the tr – traitor: Robb.”

 _Robb Stark of Winterfell,_  the name rang in her ears. Arya had a child: a single son with dark hair she called Jon, the one child the Faceless Men did not take from her before he was born. She had bedded dozens of men and wondered about the children she might be given: the son’s she would call Eddard and Brandon and Rickon and Rickard and Benjen and the daughter’s she would name Catelyn and Sansa and Nymeria and Lyanna and Lyarra.

“I shall get more wine, your Grace,” Arya bowed and left.

***

She saw her do it.

She saw the girl pour something into the King’s wine. Nobody else could see it but Sansa. It was as if the girl knew who Sansa was and was trying to tell her something.  _How would I know someone who wants to kill the King?_  She was certain that she was just imagining things, that the girl was not really pouring poison into the King’s cup, but she was and the actions replayed in her head.

“Arya,” she breathed.

It was Arya. It was her sister. The sister that she had lost years ago when their father’s head was taken. Before Sansa knew what she was doing, she had gathered up her skirts and took pursuit of her sister who was hastily making her way to the castle. Sansa followed her through the Throne Room and down a corridor towards the bed chambers: an area that was off limits to servants when the girl stopped and lashed her body to face Sansa.

“Sansa!” the girl breathed.

“Arya!”

They both ran to each other, their bodies clashing into each other as the girl’s clung onto each other for dear life. Sansa could feel her heart racing in her body as she clutched her sister, feeling her matted brown hair beneath her fingers and the itchy gown that she wore. Arya could feel Sansa’s smooth hair and the fine gown that she wore while the older sister could feel the tears forming in her eyes.

“Where – I can’t-” Sansa breathed in her ear. “You’re alive!”

“Of course I am,” Arya beamed. “You cannot kill me.”

The grasp on her sister was tighter, but Arya pulled away, glancing around the corridor. “I – I can’t stay here.”

“You’re not leaving. You’re here – you’re – you’re  _alive_!”

“Not for much longer. You saw what I did. They’ll arrest me when the servants say it was me who volunteered to pour the King’s wine.”

“Have you killed him?”

“I hope so; the poison was expensive.”

“Why?”

“He killed our father, Sansa. Why didn’t you try?”

“What could I do? I can’t poison him – I’m a terrible liar. I have three children. I can’t risk their lives for the sake of avenging our fathers. Father wouldn’t have wanted them to die for him.”

Arya smiled at her sister. “You have children: you’re the proper little Lady you always wanted to be.”

“My life isn’t exactly perfect. Where have you been?”

She should tell her, Arya wanted to tell her sister. She wanted to pull her from the castle and take her on the ship and to Braavos but she had three children that she couldn’t leave and would feel terrible if she left them: the same pang of guilt she felt every time she left Jon in Braavos.

“I have a son,” Arya confessed. “A little boy: he’s eleven and he’s called Jon. He looks like father.”

“You’re married?” Sansa exclaimed but Arya shook her head. “Oh.”

“This isn’t the time or place,” Arya breathed. “The King is dying. If I’m caught or you’re caught with me they’ll think it was you. Go back to them and claim you saw me pouring wine in the King’s cup – call a guard and tell them to chase after me. They won’t catch me.”

Lady Lannister grabbed her sister. “No. I won’t let you go. You can stay here – or in town. Please don’t leave me Arya. You’re my family. Please don’t go.”

Arya didn’t want to leave her sister. She didn’t want to leave behind her last piece of home: of Winterfell and her family and her life before becoming an assassin. The youngest Stark daughter kissed the eldest on her cheek.

“I’m so pleased you’re alive Sansa. I will come back to you. Your son – the one who inherits Winterfell – how old is he?”

“Fourteen.”

“In two years I will go to Winterfell and I will stay there and we can be a family: you and I and Jon and your children and even Tyrion if he stays quiet if that’s what you want. I swear to you, to the God of Death that I will see you again, and you can meet my Jon – and perhaps Jon can come down from the wall and I can see Bran and Rickon again,” Arya had all the intention to keep this promise. “I swear to you.”

It pained Sansa.  _She doesn’t know they’re all dead._ Jon had been killed over ten years ago and it was almost certain that Bran and Rickon had perished when Theon Greyjoy seized Winterfell. But how could Sansa tell Arya this and risk her not returning to her?”

“Promise me you will come to Winterfell,” Sansa demanded. “Promise me and I’ll let you go.”

Arya nodded. “I promise.”

“What if they catch you – what if somebody recognised you?”

Arya passed a hand down her forehead to her chin and when it passed she changed. Her dark hair turned red like Sansa’s, her eyes a bright blue, her nose and chin more prominent and her lips thin. Sansa jumped back, almost yelling but she had seen enough horror in her life to prevent her from doing so.

“Valar Morghulis,” Arya recited.

“How did you-”

“-It is as easy as taking a new name if you know how to do it. I am no longer Arya Stark. I have been trying to get this perfect for weeks. Do I look like our mother?”

Stunned: “Yes.”

“I’m pleased you like it,” Arya reached up and planted a kiss on her sister’s cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Now scream and claim it’s me who poisoned the King.”

“Arya-”

“-Arya Stark is dead. Do it Sansa or I swear to the God of Death I will not travel to Winterfell.  _Scream_.”

***

Nobody had noticed the King choking at first, but Tyrion noticed his wife running. It was that which grabbed the attention of the guests, and they had turned to the King to see him staggering along the dais, clutching his throat and choking.

“He’s choking!” Cried Mace Tyrell.

He is going to die, Tyrion realised as various members of the Kingsguard ran to Joffrey’s side. The High Septon prayed for him in a loud voice while people made pleas for somebody to get him some water. His father seized Tyrion.

“Was this you?” He demanded.

“How? I haven’t been near the King!”

“Your wife ran.”

“Princess Alyse also ran away a few hours ago. Are you going to suggest that it was  _her_  who is killing the King too?”

Tyrion felt curiously calm, though pandemonium raged all about him. They were pounding Joffrey on the back again, but his face was only growing darker. Dogs were barking, children were wailing, men were shouting useless advice at each other. Half the wedding guests were on their feet, some shoving at each other for a better view, others rushing for the doors in their haste to get away.

“Noooo," Cersei wailed, "Father help him, someone help him, my son, my son...”

Joffrey was a man grown but in his final minutes he still had his mother grasping and clutching him like a scared little boy. He looked like Jaime, except Tyrion had never seen Jaime look so frightened.

When he heard Cersei’s scream he knew it was over.

He saw the chalice lying on the floor but with his wife vanished from the scene, his youngest and brash son absent and his daughter facing an inevitable jeering from men, he knew better than to bring himself into the mess of the King’s murder.

"Your boy is gone, Cersei," Lord Tywin said. He put his gloved hand on his daughter's shoulder as one of his guardsmen shooed away the dog. "Unhand him now. Let him go." She did not hear. It took two Kingsguard to pry loose her fingers, so the body of King Joffrey Baratheon could slide limp and lifeless to the floor.

The High Septon knelt beside him. "Father Above, judge our good King Joffrey justly," he intoned, beginning the prayer for the dead.

“What’s happened?”

Sansa was at his side. “The King is dead.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “I saw who did it.”

Her little husband looked up at her. “The serving girl?"

"How did you know?"

 _Because she is your sister,_  Tyrion was inclined to say. He had recognised the girl the instant he had seen her staring at Sansa with her wide, Stark eyes. She merely did what hundreds of men were too frightened to do.

Tyrion knew that the Stark’s murder would be avenged one day. He had thought it might be Sansa but his wife had more to lose than anybody if she was discovered. The murder would be blamed on someone, and he found himself thinking of the newly wedded couple in their chambers, blissfully unaware of the King’s murder.

_Long live the Queen._

 


	29. The Grand Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb is chastisised, Luican and Alayne learn the news of King Joffrey's death and become the King and Queen shortly after. While shortly into their marriage, both Lucian and Alayne have doubts whether or not it will benefit the Realm. Meanwhile, somebody inherits their land sooner than expected and learns a few secrets about the Tyrell's too.

Lord Tywin ordered that nobody would disturb Prince Lucian and Princess Alayne, that they needed the marriage to be consummated if they wanted Alayne to be a true Queen in the upcoming days. There was no one left to argue anymore. Tyrion and Sansa did not want Alayne to be disturbed by the news, Alyse had disappeared and Cersei was too forlorn over the death of her son.

When Alyse did arrive, escorted by Ser Meryn into the Sept in the early hours of the following morning, she did not show emotion for the death of her father. She merely walked to his body, stared silently at it for several lengthy minutes then declared that she was going to sleep and Ser Meryn took her back to her chambers.

Sansa and Tyrion went to their quarters and had a dozen guards out to retrieve their sons. They waited in their living area, together sat on the lounger by the fire as their sons were brought to the room.

“What a wedding,” Robb laughed. “I wish I had seen it.”

“No you don’t,” Sansa said, “it was horrible.”

Robb frowned. “Why? He murdered your family. It’s justice.”

Sansa jumped to her feet, crossed the room to Robb and seized him. She put her hand under his chin and pulled his face so that he was staring at her, their foreheads pressed against one another.

“They’re looking for a murderer, _Robert_ ,” Sansa snapped. “The King was poisoned at his own son’s wedding and nobody knows who by. If they hear you talking about justice and more people learn that you disappeared from the wedding then you might find yourself in a dungeon tomorrow night, accused of poisoning and murdering the King.”

“Maybe it _was_ me. And how do you know he was poisoned?” Robb asked coolly. “I asked Grandfather and he said the Maesters are still investigating it.”

“What else would have killed the King?” Tyrion interrupted.

“Maybe he just choked?” Robb suggested. “On his pie.”

He pushed his mother away, rubbing his neck where her fingers had grasped round it. His mother seldom raised her voice to him, let alone hit him or used any sort of violence. She returned to her seat beside her husband.

“Where is Tyran?”

“Asleep probably,” yawned his younger brother, sitting on the arm chair opposite his mother and father. “Like any other sane person is at this time at night. Apart from Alayne and Lucian because, well... Has anybody told them?” Tyrion shook his head. “That’s probably the best wedding present anyone could give them then. When will Alayne be Queen?”

“ _Robb_ ,” his father chastised. “Do you think this really is the time?”

“Well, I think so. The Kingdoms can’t not have a King or Queen. Father, do you think Lucian will name you his Hand? You’ve always been a father to him – he said so himself – he might name you his Hand!”

“Not if Cersei is his Queen Regent,” Tyrion returned. “And she will be until he comes of age. Nothing will change.”

Incredulous: “But father, don’t you see? _Everything’s_ changed.”

***

Alayne did not sleep much that night. She lay awake for a long while after they had finished: the insides of her thigh wet and sticky with his seed and he rolled off, apologising for hurting her. The pain eventually subsided but Alayne thought it rude if she left to clean herself up, so she stayed in bed beside her husband, listening to his breathing and his soft snoring. _Perhaps I will not mind being a Princess,_ she considered. _I’ll not have much work to do._

But when Alayne finally fell asleep they were awoken by loud banging on the door. Lucian yawned and stretched, hitting Alayne on the shoulder.

He giggled. “Sorry, I forgot you were here.”

“Charming,” she noted dryly. “Who is it?” She called to the person outside their door.

“Lord Tywin Lannister,” returned to voice who was not her Grandfather’s but Ser Meryn Trant’s. “He wishes to speak to their Graces.”

Lucian let out a loud sigh. “Just wait please Grandfather.”

The Prince and Princess stumbled for their clothes. Alayne found it tricky to dress herself so left her corset alone and grabbed one of the looser gowns that had been moved to her new chambers by her handmaidens.

As they dressed, Lucian said to his wife, “I thought they’d let us break our fast before they start training you on how to be Queen.”

“So did I,” Alayne admitted, tying a knot behind her back to keep the dress from slipping. “Shall we let him in?”

Lucian tied his breeches, dressing himself a lot easier than his wife. He walked from their bed to the door, opening it and with a smile welcomed Lord Tywin to their chambers.

“I bring you grave news,” Lord Tywin announced. Ser Meryn closed the door behind the Lord Hand. “King Joffrey is dead.”

Lucian sat on his bed, his mouth open in shock. He didn’t like his father but it must have been difficult for him all the same to hear the news that he was dead. Alayne awaited her young husband to press for questions, but when he did not, the responsibility fell to Alayne.

“How did it happen?”

“The Maesters are still studying his body, but Grand Maester Qyburn suggests that the King was poisoned after your bedding ceremony.”

“Gods,” Lucian breathed. “Why?”

Lord Tywin shook his head. “As there are no possible suspects, everybody questioned has an alibi, we may never find out why the King was poisoned.”

 _Because he’s a cunt._ “What do we do?”

“For now there is nothing that can be done. You shall go into mourning for you are the King’s kin and his heirs.”

Heirs. With Joffrey dead she would be Queen and Lucian would be her King. The person that murdered the King must have spared Lucian’s life because he knew he was different from his father, and they wanted him and Alayne to sit the throne. But they were children; Lucian was years away from coming of age and Cersei would serve as Queen Regent once more. If someone wanted Joffrey dead to put Alayne and Lucian on the throne, then they should have done it three years in the future.

“I shall leave you with your grief, your Grace, your Grace,” he bowed to each of them in turn and exited the room.

Lucian looked at Alayne. “I’m going to be King.”

Alayne was not shocked Lucian didn't mourn instantly for his father; Joffrey certainly wouldn't have shed a tear for the son he had longed for. 

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to be King.”

The auburn haired Princess moved and sat beside her husband, taking his hand. “You’ll be a good King,” she promised. “Kind and gentle and we’ll have a good court. You won’t be like your father.”

“Do you want to be Queen?”

“Yes.”

“So does my sister.”

There was a pause. “You think Alyse poisoned your father?”

“Maybe... But she loved him.  If she wanted to kill anyone she should have killed me. I don’t know... It could have been anyone.”

Anyone. It could have been her mother, seeking revenge for what Joffrey did to her family. Or it could have been her father for the King had made his life hell, taunting him and taking Alayne for the throne. It could have been Robb. Out of all of them it might have been her older brother; he was the angriest about what Joffrey did to Lord Eddard and his Uncles. He had made idle threats about going to war when he inherited the North. With his sister on the throne, Robb would have immense power. She did not want to think the King had been poisoned by her big brother, but the possibility echoed through her mind.

***

Lucian had insisted they be crowned together, that there be a ceremony for both of them to be King and Queen.

The guests from the wedding stayed for the coronation that took place three days after the wedding and Joffrey’s death. The castle turned black to mourn the King, the singers and musicians only played low, deep and slow tunes and everyone walked around slowly, whispering and glancing over their shoulder in case Joffrey’s murderer would strike them next.

The Prince and Princess were stripped from their mourning clothes and thrust into quickly made, expensive, extravagant clothing for their coronations. Both wore matching crimson felt with a black under coat, studded with diamond and onyx and sapphire alike. They both looked very beautiful in their coronation gowns: like a King and Queen.

“May the Warrior grant them courage and protect them in these perilous times. May the Smith grant them strength that they might bear this heavy burden and may the Crone, she that knows the fate of all men, show them the path they must walk and guide them through the dark places that lie ahead. In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Lucian of the House Baratheon, First of His Name King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Alayne of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and First Men and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The crown that was placed on Alayne’s head was more beautiful than the one her mother and father had given her. It was a true crown fit for a Queen: gold structure with the Baratheon antlers and rubies at the head of each golden antler. It was not heavy and fitted around Alayne’s head as if she had been born to wear it, and she sat on the iron throne as if it were destiny, above them all, looking down at them from beyond.

***

Alayne Lannister and Lucian Baratheon. Queen Alayne and King Lucian, the First of their Names. They were her Grandson and niece and were not supposed to be crowned for decades and decades until their hair was grey and their babies had babies of their own and Joffrey was missing his teeth and Cersei was long in the ground.

_“Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds”_

But that had never been possible: Cersei would never be dead before her children. That fate had been decided years ago when she was a little girl. Myrcella, Tommen and Joff had all been taken from her, but at the end of it all she found herself as Queen Regent to her Grandson and his wife who both had the potential to be a great King and Queen if Lucian’s death was not inevitable. He had tired climbing the stairs and the night before had not been able to finish his young wife because he had tired and fallen asleep on top of her. She pitied Alayne; Robert had fallen asleep mid-act before and not only was it offending but also foul. Being Queen for her would not be easy, but Lucian was her darling Grandson who cried on Cersei’s shoulder about the death of his father and it was she whom he sought out after the coronation.

“I miss father,” Lucian confessed.

“Your crown is not straight,” Cersei straightened the golden crown that had once belonged to Joffrey. “You don’t want your Queen to look the part better than you, do you?”

“No Grandmother, but Alayne makes a good Queen.” _She has had the crown for five minutes, dear boy._ “But not as good as you.”

She put a hand to his golden curls. He didn’t look much like Joffrey, though he had his hair he had his mother’s eyes and resembled a Tyrell, but he was still a little beauty like his sisters and his mother.

“Where’s Alyse?” Lucian scanned the crowd. “I didn’t see her.”

 _Filled with anger that it is not her sat on the throne, but instead you and your wife._ “She grieves for your father, as we all do.”

“I want the person’s head that killed my father,” Lucian stated. “Sansa says it was a dark haired girl posing as a servant who poured poison into his wine.”

“We were fortunate that _Lady_ Sansa saw the act happen,” Cersei agreed. “But suspicious, do you not think?”

 _I would arrest her and her husband if I could._ They must have hired the servant to poison sweet Joff. Sansa would have avenged her father’s death and her daughter would be Queen, her sons would inherit their lands shortly and the realm would be at peace and belong to them: daughter as Queen and sons as Wardens.

“No. Sansa wouldn’t kill father.”

“Of course not your Grace,” Cersei smiled, putting a hand on her sons cheek. “What will you do as your first act of King?”

“I want my cousin to stay at King’s Landing: Uncle Tommen’s daughter and I want her to sit at Storms End instead of wed Jon Arryn. But I can’t do that, can I?”

“No you cannot.”

“What _can_ I do?”

“Will you keep Lord Tywin as your Hand?”

The King shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“A clever decision. He is your wife’s Grandfather and served as a good and loyal Hand under your father. You would be unwise to replace him with Tyrion Lannister.”

King Lucian glanced at the aforementioned Lannister who spoke to the Queen, and Lucian smiled longingly. “I love her.”

He had the shortest attention span that Cersei had ever known. It was almost an impossible task to maintain his focus. It made her wonder how well Lucian would be able to maintain his crown if there were wiser and more shrewd men.

“Lord Baelish and Lord Varys,” Cersei pressed. “Lord Varys reportedly sides with the Targaryen claim and Dorne. Lord Baelish is old and hiding in the Eyrie with his step-son’s young son. It would be a good decision to bring them back to court to work as your advisors _in_ King’s Landing.”

“Should I get Alayne a gift?” Lucian ignored his Grandmother. “She likes reading – should I get her a book?”

“I’m sure she has plenty of books, Lucian, now if you would listen to me-”

“- _Grandmother_ ,” Lucian sighed. “If you want to make some changes do it. Everybody says I’m too young to be King. Just – if you want to do something just run it through with me. You and Grandfather will run Westeros. I don’t know what I’m doing! Bring Lord Baelish back to the council and do whatever you were planning with Lord Varys but _please_ stop boring me!”

“It is wise you are more attentive, Lucian,” said his Grandmother. “A good King-”

“-I don’t even want to be King. Can I stop?”

 _And allow Alyse to run the country in the ruin?_ “No, your Grace.”

“Then _please_ don’t make me make decisions and hurt people. That can be your job.”

He gave his Grandmother a kiss on her cheek which tasted like powder and paint and left her. Queen Regent Cersei Lannister looked up at the iron throne and down at the crown that sat atop Lucian’s head. He would be everything that a King should be; only he did not want the power and responsibility that was thrust upon him. He must be the only King in generations who did not want to be King.

***

Four moons passed and Alayne was still not with child. One month she thought she would be, and after being late only one day ran to her mother giddy that she may have a child inside her. But the following day she bled and she felt sorrow for the child she never had.

She enjoyed being Queen. She sat at court more often than her husband on the iron throne above them all, looking at the pretty maids in their pretty gowns and the handsome Knights and Lords in their fancy armour and cloaks. She would have liked for Lucian to be sat next to her, whispering in her ear and making her giggle, but he found court to be too boring for him and too tiring, but Alayne had to attend court. Whenever she didn’t, Princess Alyse would replace the King and Queen on the throne and send as many men to death as she turned them away for wasting her time.

“You can’t let her do this!” Alayne exclaimed. “She’ll kill everyone!”

“No she won’t,” Lucian said tiresomely. He was lying on his stomach, flicking through a book. “If we have a son, can we call him Arthur?”

“ _Arthur_?”

“For Ser Arthur Dayne: the Sword of the Morning! Look, him, here!”

“I know who Arthur Dayne is,” Alayne snapped. “But I’m not giving our son a name like _Arthur._ He needs a good, strong name like Lorcan or Victor. We don’t even have a son yet, Lucian! Please can you stop talking about this.”

“You were the one who started it! You told me a few weeks ago to start thinking of names I wanted for our son and I told you: Arthur.”

“We aren’t calling him Arthur.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter because you’re not even with child,” he said coldly.

Alayne had been taking off her string of pearls when Lucian snapped at her, and she threw them against the wardrobe, shattering them and losing them off the string.

“That’s not my fault! You’re weak, your seed is weak! If I had a proper, strong husband he could give me dozens of children! But instead I’m married to you who would rather let his sister murder hundreds of men than accept that he can’t climb the stairs to the Iron Throne because he thinks he’s going to collapse.”

“You’re a bitch.”

They had never argued before, not properly, and Alayne had always kept her anger at her husband bottled out inside her and took it out on Robb when they would walk the gardens together and rant to him about everything the King did wrong or annoyed her about. He would never defend her against Lord Tywin or Cersei when they picked at her mannerisms. Worst of all, he would not give her the child she so desperately wanted and after four months of marriage her Septa told her that she should have been given one by now.

But her mother told her it was nothing to worry about, but Alayne did worry. Her mother had fallen with child after the first time she and her father shared a bed and it was the same for Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. For Queen Margaery and King Joffrey it had taken longer, and her mother reasoned that she had been given their bad luck instead of the Starks good one.

She did her embroidery work in her family’s private quarters; she could not stand the sight of her husband the King after their argument and sunk into the lounger beside her brother Robb.

“Where’s Tyran?” Alayne requested.

“Am I not good enough for you?” Robb retorted.

“I was only asking,” Alayne snapped. "I’m just losing my patience with the King; he’s a stupid little boy."

“It’s treason to speak ill of our King,” Robb claimed.

“Is it? What if it’s his wife the Queen who says it? I’ve always wanted to be Queen; I wanted the power that you and Tyran would get from Winterfell and Casterly Rock. I don’t want it anymore. I just want to live a quiet and peaceful life and not have to worry about sitting court and listening to men cry about their goats dying.”

“The sooner I go to Winterfell the better.”

“But you’d leave me,” Alayne pouted, stabbing at her canvas with her needle, threading the string through in a pattern that she hoped would eventually begin to look like a stag. “And I’d be all alone with Aunt Cersei, Grandfather, Alyse and Lucian.”

Robb put a hand on his little sister’s arm. “You can come and visit!”

She would do and she would hope that she could leave her husband behind and she could fly away to Winterfell and just being Alayne. Not Queen Alayne. Just Alayne.

“I forgot to ask you how your walk with Lady Pansy went,” Alayne said quietly.

“We didn’t go walking – well, we did, but I just took her to my chambers.”

“ _Robb_ ,” Alayne reprehended.

“ _Alayne_ ,” he imitated. “You sound just like mother after she saw me kissing Grace.”

“Who’s Grace?”

“One of Alyse’s handmaidens. She sent her away but I just took her to my chambers. I’ll probably have better luck getting someone with child than your husband,” he joked. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

She agreed that it was and she picked at the thread she had incorrectly sewn, threw down the cloth and sunk against the lounger. It was nice to be with her brother. She favoured Robb over Tyran. Robb was fun and made her laugh and they would sneak around the castle at night together while Tyran was more serious than her brother and took to a life of court better than the middle Lannister child.

“I wanted to speak to mother. Where is she?” Robb shrugged. “So with mother not in her chambers, Tyran in practice with Grandfather and father at a small council meeting, why don’t you have a pretty girl in your chambers?”

“Because when you’re miserable, dear sister, I’m miserable,” he planted a kiss on his sister’s cheek. “ _And_ I just got back from sword practice and I’m exhausted. Could I have one of the swords Robert Baratheon kept in the armoury?”

“Sure,” Alayne said, “but don’t take one of the small ones; Lucian likes fighting with them.”

“I’m going to take the biggest I can find,” Robb grinned. “And I’m going to fuck a girl with it.”

She cringed. “Robb that’s disgusting.”

Laughing, he brought himself up from the lounger. He held out his hand for the Queen to take and he pulled her up from the lounger too.

“Walk with me,” Robb requested. “The castle gets boring with you and Lucian being the King and the Queen with all your responsibilities and shit.”

She accepted his arm, glad of the company. Alayne would not have thought it at first, but being Queen was a lonely life when your only companions were Lords and Ladies older than you and a golden haired little husband who grew tired after a five minute walk around the grounds. Queen Alayne loved her brother very much and was always glad of the company he provided her with. The Gods knew it was better than the likes of the small council.

***

It should have been her who the High Septon crowned Queen, not the little bitch Alayne. Her brother should have been the one the serving girl murdered at the wedding and not her father who she loved with all her heart and treated her as his heir and loved her in return.

She hated Lucian. He didn’t suit the Iron Throne and the golden crown their father wore so handsomely. On a little boy it just looked silly, but she should be the Queen: tall and beautiful and womanly at fifteen and suitable to be Queen. All she wanted was to be Queen, to have the power her the men had. She was determined not to be married off to some Lord and Lord Tywin had already suggested wedding her to the much older Prince Trystane to attempt to forge the alliance with the Martell’s once more.

“Are you insane?” Princess Alyse cried. “They _murdered_ my Aunt Myrcella and Uncle Tommen. Jaime Lannister also murdered Daenerys Targaryen – what do you think they’d do to me? Give me a grand room overlooking the Water Gardens and allow me to play with Princess Arianne’s children? They would throw me in the dungeon the instant I dismounted my horse or kill me if I was lucky.”

“You cannot send her to Dorne,” the new Queen Cersei added. “I won’t let you.”

“Then who would you wed?” Lord Tywin asked the Princess. “You are five-and-ten, the sister of the King, born into a good house. I would suggest Haelan Tyrell-”

She spat on the floor. “ _Never_."

“If you continue to turn down these betrothals it will result in you leading an unhappy, celibate life. Who would you suggest?”

 _Your Grandson Tyran Lannister, the boy I have loved since we were children playing together in the snow. The boy I fuck almost every night._ He was the boy with the golden hair and the Lannister looks that every girl in the Seven Kingdoms were told about and the boy Lord’s wrote to Lord Tywin requesting betrothals for, the future Lord of Casterly Rock, member of the most prestigious house in Westeros and brother to the King. He was by far the best match that could be offered to a Princess, but Lord Tywin knew better than to waste such a boy and Princess on each other; they were more suited for alliances.

She found herself in Tyran’s bed more often now since her father died. He had refused her the night he died after taking her twice during the wedding celebrations, but did not refuse her sharing his bed. Ser Tyran fell asleep quickly but Princess Alyse stayed awake, allowing herself to cry into the pillow as it muffled her tears. He would not see her cry, no matter how much she loved him he would not see her cry.

Alyse did wish to marry him one day. They had a plan that when Lord Tywin died they would wed; nobody could stop them and if they tried they would run away together but neither of them wished for it to resolve to the latter. Tyran didn’t want to leave his family and the opportunity to be Queen was arising as the weather turned warmer and her little brother sicklier in the weeks that passed that he was crowned King and by the end of the year and seven months of marriage, there was no baby kicking around in Queen Alayne’s stomach.

“We could do it,” Alyse nibbled on Tyran’s ear. “Run away together. Find a drunken Septon to wed us. You can put a babe in me and we could raise him together in a safe and comfortable castle.”

“That castle is Casterly Rock,” he replied. “Which I inherit when Grandfather dies.”

She rolled off him, her breasts exposed to the cold air. “I bet three dragons my brother dies before Lord Tywin.”

“That’s sadistic,” Tyran said, “I’m not betting that.”

“Because you’re scared you’ll lose.”

“No, because I’m not going to bet the life of my Grandfather against the life of my sister’s husband and I’m surprised – well, actually I’m not – that you would do such a thing.”

She held out her hands. “So arrest me and throw me in the black cells. I love you and I don’t care who hears me or what happens. There’s nothing even wrong with what we’re doing! There was when you were betrothed to Helena Tyrell, but there’s nothing stopping us declaring our love for each other and asking Tywin if we can marry.”

“Alyse,” Tyran sighed. “I love you but you’re senile.”

There truly was nothing stopping them from wedding except Tyran himself. People had married for love before, so why couldn’t they? They were not directly related, they were not strangers and they loved each other and Alyse failed to see the flaw in the plan of which they would marry and be happy and provide Casterly Rock with the heirs needed.

“I need to see Grandfather,” Tyran yawned. “He wants to discuss matters with me for my name day.”

“I forget you turn sixteen tomorrow.”

“If it was Robb he’d be going to Winterfell within the moon. But with me, it doesn’t matter if I’m twenty: so long as my Grandfather lives I have to stay here.”

Have to stay here. As he said it, the words echoed in her ears. Have to stay here. Did he not like it in King’s Landing, in the Red Keep with her? The way they held each other at night, their kisses and their touches and the fucking. Did he not want it anymore? Of course he did, Alyse reassured herself. He loved her more than words could express, he told her so every day.

“I love you,” he breathed against her lips. “But I really must go.”

***

He knew that Alyse was right: they could marry within the year and there would be no reason to stop them. His mother and father would want him to be happy and Grandfather wouldn’t care who he put his heirs in so long as he got one and there was no one to stop Alyse anymore. She had already bled and a woman grown, she could make her own decisions by now.

He entered his Grandfather’s solar to find him as he always was: sat behind his desk with a solid expression on his old face. Only this time, unlike so many other lessons before, there were no books or maps open on the desk and confused, Tyran took the seat opposite the desk.

“There was something you needed Grandfather.”

Tyran knew there was an issue by the way his Grandfather looked. He had not attended court recently and stopped his lessons with Tyran. Tyran only assumed that he was busy, but Lord Tywin looked sickly. He was pale and gaunt; his cheekbones heavily defined and shook as he reached across the table to pour himself and Tyran a cup of water. His complexion was tinted green and his eyes lacked colour and the life they had once possessed.

Lord Tywin clarified Tyran’s guesses. “I’m dying.”

“Y-Yes.”

“It is my heart,” Lord Tywin continued. “I have not been feeling well since your sister’s wedding. Until now I have been well enough to perform my duties as the Hand of the King, Warden of the West but I have not done my duty as a Grandfather to tell you of my condition. You are my Grandson: my heir and most beloved family member. My son Jaime is likely dead and his sword is yours, I know I have made the correct decision in giving it to you. I know you will defend the Lannister name with honour. I am unsure how long I have left to live. Weeks, months or maybe even days. I will likely not live to see the new year but I would like to have known that I have done my duties as a Grandfather to you as best as I have: training you to be my heir, teaching you the Houses and their Lord’s. Have I done so?”

“You’ve been the best Grandfather,” Tyran managed. “I love you.”

Lord Tywin gave him one of his rare small smiles which shattered Tyran’s heart. “No one must see me like this. Not your father or brother or King and Queen. You will be the Hand of the King after me; your sister will rightly name you so. Your sister marrying the King was the best decision I have made for my Grandchildren. Betrothing you to Helena Tyrell was my worst; it would have made you very unhappy and resentful. I know you love Princess Alyse.”

“Yes,” Tyran would not lie to a dying man.

“I could have made you happy marrying her, and I should have done, but the late Queen Margaery and her Grandmother did a terrible thing to her last children. Maester’s stopped the Prince’s seed from spreading and fed the daughter’s potions to prevent them from carrying children. A cruel thing I know, but one that I agreed with; it would stop the seed of Joffrey Baratheon from spreading. I could not have you marry Princess Alyse; you could not give the west heirs.”

A revelation that spread chills through Tyran. His sister would remain childless unless she married again. He and Alyse would never have the babies they hoped to have. They would produce no heirs, so who would the throne fall to?

“Tommen Baratheon’s daughter would inherit the throne: Cersei. She would wed the Arryn boy, taking him to the throne and killing the Arryn name. The Tyrell’s hoped to spread the name through Garlan and Willas, but Garlan Tyrell’s wife is barren and Willas Tyrell had only one son who, like his Uncle, prefers the company of men to women. This leaves the possibilities of the takeover of the Lannister’s. Your son would wed the child of Queen Cersei and Jon Arryn if she was a girl. We would have them stop producing children after they gave the Realm a girl, killing the Baratheon and Arryn name and putting the Lannister’s on the throne and in the east. Do you understand all of this?”

“I think so.”

“So you know you must continue this? The Tyrell name will eventually die and you must put a Lannister in the south. After King Lucian dies - it is inevitable that he will die shortly after myself and your sister shall marry my Great-Nephew Tywin Lannister, continuing the Lannister line. The Gods blessed my father with four sons to continue the Lannister name. With your co-operation the Lannister’s will rule Westeros.”

“But Robb will take Winterfell and become Robb Stark.”

“Not unless the King prevents it, which I very much intends he does. You will feed it to the King and sing it to your sister. It is important that you do so.”

“Grandfather,” Tyran sighed. “I have never met this Tywin Lannister your Nephew named, how will I know if he is-”

“-Kevan and I have arranged this for years since we went to Casterly Rock. We have potential for the Lannister name to continue throughout Westeros for generations. What a legacy we will maintain.”

It would be a legacy. The Lannister’s of Winterfell, the Lannister’s of the Vale, the Lannister’s of the Reach and the Lannister’s of Casterly Rock but most importantly to Tywin: the Lannister’s of the Iron Throne. Tyran might have agreed with his Grandfather to carry out his scheme.

“You allowed me to fall in love with a girl you would never let me marry.”

“It was not my intention.”

“But I fell in love with her which you allowed. You allowed Olenna and Margaery Tyrell to poison and mutilate their own blood to stop Joffrey’s from continuing. What sick monster does that? I do not believe Margaery would have done such thing; she loved her children.”

“But she hated Joffrey more. The love she bore for her children matched the hatred she felt for her husband. Mothers and fathers alike do strange things for their children. You will understand that one day when you hold your own son in your arms.”

“I will never have sons,” Tyran claimed, his voice rising. “Because I will marry Alyse and you will regret the day you turned your head and allowed the Tyrell’s to harm their children to prevent the name spreading. I love Alyse. I will not wed another woman so long as she walks the land.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Tywin said gravely, “I thought we could part on good terms.”

“So did I,” Tyran admitted. “Until you harmed the girl that I love.”

“Your father killed his mother coming into this world. Your sister almost killed your own mother and King Lucian almost killed Queen Margaery so what was done had to be done. I loathe your father; I think he is a wicked little monster but the lack of love I felt for him I gave to you twice fold. I named him Tyrion after the evil King Tyrion who lusted for women's flowers. I loathed him for killing the woman that I loved. Tyran was the name I would have given him if Joanna had lived. Tyran was the name I sang to your mother and father as your mother carried you. You are the son I never had, and the son I always wanted. Do not speak to me of the disdain you feel towards me for not stopping you from falling in love with Alyse Baratheon when I have loved you from your first breath until your last.”

Tywin had never told Tyran that he loved him. He never confessed why he continued the tradition of the Lannister name through Tyrion and not through Jaime: the golden son.

“For your honesty I will give Casterly Rock heirs but you may have a long wait for I may never love another girl as much as I love Alyse. I shall sit by your bedside as you die, taking your hand and saying farewell and forget everything you ever told me. I love my father, but I love you more. That I hate myself for."

“You have made me so proud,” Lord Tywin croaked. “I have never been more-”

He stopped midsentence. His breathing quickened and his head lolled back on his neck. Tyran tried to scream for help but no noise came from his mouth. Tywin grasped the table but could not keep grip. He jolted in his chair as if electric eels had stung him and finally, his suffering ceased to an end. His head drooped, his hands fell to his lap and it wasn’t for a few lengthy seconds that Tyran realised he had watched his Grandfather die.


	30. Graceful Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost from Robb's past returns to him, Tyran confronts Alyse, someone new joins the Lannister family while another one leaves.

“If only he had died seven months before their marriage instead of seven months after. Alayne would never have been forced to marry the Prince and become Queen and we could all lead quiet and simple lives and go live in a castle and wait in safety until our boys become old enough to inherit their respected lands and titles."

“This changes a lot now,” Sansa whispered in their bed. “There is nobody to stop Alyse from murdering people."

"And returning Westeros into the state it was under with the Mad King Aerys," Tyrion added.

"Would Lucian name you his Hand?”

“I hope not; the fewer excuses we have to stay in King’s Landing the better. With Tyran as Lord of Casterly Rock now, we can live there with Robb until his sixteenth name day and with Alayne once the King dies.”

“We don’t know if Lucian will die, Tyrion, and I should hope he doesn't. My cousin Robert Arryn lived to produce an heir. If Alayne falls with child we will have to stay at King’s Landing with her to raise the heir to the Iron Throne and you _will_ accept the position as Hand of the King.”

“With our son’s in each corner of the realm and our daughter sat on the throne, my Great-Niece wed to the Lord of the Vale and our good friend Willas as heir intended to Highgarden then... We possess the most power.”

“Dorne,” Sansa reminded.

“We send Alyse to wed down there and we take a ward up here to marry Alayne or Robb or Tyran."

"No. No Tyrion, I will not be a part of sending Alyse to Dorne. I don't care how she is, what she has turned out to be, she is a little girl. She is Margaery's  _daughter_. I will not have her shipped off to her death."

"It would benefit the Realm. But this is only if Alayne falls with child which is highly unlikely. I hope as a father who wishes to see his daughter happy with children that she does, but strategically I would rather she be barren.”

“So do I. Should we do something... To prevent her from falling with child. It is horrible but if it saves her in the future she may realise why we did it and understand.”

“Let us not speak such things,” Tyrion soothed, stroking his wife’s hair. “Get some rest; we need to be strong for our children on the morrow, primarily Tyran. It must not have been easy for him watching his Grandfather lapse into death the day before his nameday.”

She kissed him goodnight and blew out the candle beside their bed.

***

He paced his room.

The window was open and the fire in the hearth extinguished but Robb was sweating, heavily breathing and his mouth drier than a maid’s cunt. His head throbbed and his body ached, but these reactions were not towards his Grandfather’s death which his parents reported to him with a heavy heart. Robb may have been saddened by the death if a girl had not come to him at noon, her belly swollen with tears in her eyes as she confessed that the child she carried inside her was his and he had sent her away in disgust.

But how could he allow her to raise their child alone, penniless and without home? Princess Alyse had banished her from service when she learned she had a bastard in her belly and she had prevented herself from coming to Robb for as long as possible, but she feared for the child inside her if she did not ask for help. He had sent her away but after the long night that proceeded after learning he was going to be a father and that his Grandfather was dead, he summoned her back to the castle via his squire and she sat in his chambers, feasting on a large meal that should have been Robb’s to break his fast with.

After she had finished eating he gave her the bath his squire had drawn for her and went to his sister’s room to find her suitable clothing. The dress he gave her did not fit correctly; it was much too small but the girl accepted it gratefully and did not comment that it was too small. She threw the moth eaten, shit stained dress away and spoke to Robb.

“I never had any other man in my bed beside you, my Lord. I swear to you by the Old Gods and the New that there has only been you. It has been seven moons since you first bedded me and I never took another man. I promise you. There has only been you.”

“I believe you,” Robb said.

“All I want, my Lord, is for your help. I have nowhere else to turn to. My mother is dead and my father gone. I have no family and have been sleeping on the floor of an inn for the past two moons, starving and filthy. I would take no money for myself, only to clean and feed the child.”

Robb was in a dilemma. He was unsure what to do. The girl who stood before him – he didn’t even remember her name – had his child growing inside her. He could not leave her and the babe to die on the streets; he would never forgive himself if he allowed that to happen, acknowledging the child would be the better move, but Robb did not want to dishonour her or the child. The decision would have been impossible if Lord Tywin was alive; he would have the child killed if he discovered Robb had fathered a bastard. _But he’s dead,_ Robb remembered, _he doesn’t control me._

“I will not acknowledge the child and it will not carry the name Waters.”

“My – My lord?”

“Instead if you would have me, you would join my family and become a Lannister, share my lands and my bed and my wine and food. Our child will be well provided for, as will you.”

His Uncle Robb had taken Jeyne Westerling to his bed and married her within days. People called him honourable while others called him stupid. Robb preferred the former. If his Uncle had done it without shaming the family (though it resulted in his death) the boy in a similar situation could make the same choice.

“I shall tell my parents at noon,” he decided. “And tell them the circumstances. They will allow it for my mother’s own brother did the same as I intend to with you. But I may find it difficult to introduce you if I do not have your name.”

She began to laugh. “I’m Grace.”

“Grace,” he breathed. “I remember you.”

Grace looked at him in astonishment. “You do?”

“How could I forget? You are the mother to my child. That is not something that slips someone’s mind quickly.”

She laughed. “I remember you always made me laugh. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for this. You could have set me aside as so many other Lord’s did for their women, but you have not.”

“I suppose I am as honourable as my Grandfather,” Robb sighed. “Honourable to a fault.”

***

Tyran would always look at Alyse differently now. She had lied to him about being flowered just so he would go to her bed and not consider her a little girl anymore. She had lied to the entire Realm but Tyran didn’t care about that; he only cared that Alyse had deceived him and led him on. She would have known as well as Lord Tywin that without being flowered she could not live the life she intended to with him. She had deluded herself with the idea that she would get with Tyran’s babe despite not having the ability to do so, and he tried to love her but he couldn’t do it anymore.

“When are you going to Casterly Rock?”

She had forced him to walk with her around the gardens the following day after he had seen his Grandfather die. The new Lord of Casterly Rock did not want to leave his bedchambers but she had forced him out into the open, receiving sympathetic looks and pats on the shoulder. All he wanted to do was lock himself away in his chambers, mourn for his Grandfather in isolation and try not to think about what Lord Tywin had confessed to him. That was made increasingly difficult by him being forced to accompany her around the gardens.

“Will you take me with you?” He would not take her with him. If she had wanted that then the Princess should not have lied to him. “Why are you ignoring me?”

Tyran wanted to turn on her and shout at her. To make her feel guilty for lying to him and to remind her that seeing his Grandfather die right before his eyes affected him. She had not grieved for her father that Tyran was aware of. Alyse seemed incapable of emotion.

“It’s shit what happened to Lord Tywin, but you have to move on. I did with my father and mother, but now that Lord Tywin’s dead we can get married!”

“No we can’t,” Tyran scowled. “I promised Grandfather I wouldn’t wed you. I know you cannot have my children, that you lied about bleeding and pretended to do so on the moon. How could I ever marry you if you lied to me?”

She released his arm. Her voice was like that of a small child. “I’m sorry.”

“Save your breath,” Tyran snapped. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t think you’d love me anymore.”

He would love her. He would love her until his final breath and he hated himself for it. Love is dangerous. At least with Robb the girls he bedded he felt little or no emotional attachment to, but with Alyse, it was different. It was more than just touching and fucking and kissing, they loved each other. It was one of Tyran’s biggest flaws.

“I hate you as much as I love you.”

“I just love you.”

“I don’t think we will ever be the same again,” he confessed. “I am not the same person as I was yesterday.”

“We all lie for the people we love,” Alyse informed. “And I love you more than I can tell you.”

“I know,” Tyran sighed. “Which is why I’m going west this moon; I need to get away from everything. From my Grandfather’s death, from my sister and from you.”

She smiled meekly at him. “I’ll miss you.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “Not as much as I’ll miss you.”

"Then take me with you."

With somewhat anger and desperation, Tyran snatched his hand from Alyse. "Never."

***

How could he tell his parents? He was fourteen-years-old, fifteen in five moons, which by then Grace would have given him their child and they should be married. How could he tell his parents that he had fucked this serving girl without even a last name and gotten her with his child? His seed. He was to be the Lord of Winterfell in seventeen months. Wardens could not marry that far below them; they would not respect the children they would bear. They would be bastards in the eyes of the Lords and Ladies who served the north. If it was a boy it would be no true Lord.

He imagined the look of shame on his mothers face when he would tell her, masked with the ever present love she felt for him. Robb knew it would kill his mother for what he had done. Her brother had bed a girl then wed her and it resulted in the downfall of House Stark in just one night. She would leave the room, blinking back tears, assuring Robb that she was not angry, that she was only ashamed.

The look on his father’s face would be worse. Joffrey and Aunt Cersei had told him the tale of how his father married a whore and she left him and fucked the Lannister soldiers. He would shake his head in dismay and say he expected better of him and that he should be more like the wonderful Tyran: his older, smarter, better-looking and more desired brother. Sometimes Robb hated his brother, but he never could for too long.

After dinner, Tyran left early as he always did and Robb was left alone with his parents. They moved from the dining quarters to their own private quarters as they would every night before dinner to spend time together. Robb was on edge by the end of the dinner, his hands shaking and praying to the Gods that it would all go well. He had gotten himself into the mess. He could get himself out.

“So are you going to tell us what’s the matter?” His mother asked. “You’ve been quiet all night.”

“And that’s never a good thing,” his father added.

He instructed his mother and father to take a seat on the lounger and Robb paced before them, entwining his fingers between each other. He stopped by the fire and gazed into it, watching the dancing flares light up the hearth. He spoke to the fire instead of to his mother and father.

“You’re going to be Grandparents.” At first his mother thought Alayne was with child. “No it’s not Alayne. It was me. I let a serving girl share my bed and she got with child.”

***

Would he start laughing? Was he frightening he and his mother and claim it was all a joke in a few moments time? But he did not. He looked at them both frightened, more frightened than Tyrion had ever seen his son look.

“Please say something,” he croaked. “Anything.”

“What is there to say?” Sansa asked. “I’m pleased you had the courage to tell us.”

“As am I,” Tyrion agreed. “Your child will be accepted into our family; we will give him or her all the gold they need and a home and land too.”

“Definitely,” agreed Sansa.

“I was hoping he could share my land: that I would wed Grace and make our babe my heir to Winterfell.”

He wanted to marry her? It was a shock, definitely, but not too much. It was not unheard of, Sansa’s brother had done a very similar thing many decades ago which had unfortunately ended badly, but it would be different for Robb; no one would want him killed as a result.

“Mother, you always said how I was more Stark than Lannister. Stark’s are honourable like Lord Eddard and my Uncle Robb. I don’t want to shame Grace.”

“Come here,” Sansa extended her hand with a smile. He saw Robb’s frightened face diminish and the look of relief took over as he accepted his mother’s hand and went to sit between them. “I love you,” she kissed him on the side of his head. “And you’re doing a good thing. Of course you may wed her. How many weeks has she had this child growing in her belly for?”

“I don’t know how many weeks are in seven months.”

Tyrion jolted. “ _Seven months_?”

His wife put a hand on his shoulder behind her son’s body; she kept a hand on her son to stop him from running away. “It makes no difference and you can wed her within the next weeks.”

“I want to marry her by the Godswood.”

“That is fine,” Sansa soothed. “Anything you’d like.”

She took it better than Tyrion who was still shocked to the core that his son had gotten a girl with child, let alone fucking them. He had heard rumours, Robb had never directly admitted it but Alayne had commented that Tyrion should check his son more often. Tyrion thought it petty sibling squabbling, but there had been more honesty to Alayne’s words than he would have liked to believe.

“Bring her to sup with us on the morrow,” Tyrion said, “Tyran will dine with Lucian and Alayne so it can be the four of us.”

Robb looked to him. “I’m sorry father.”

Tyrion got up and smiled at his son. “Don’t apologise son. Many men have done it. I would be a hypocrite if I reprimanded you for this. I did not get a woman with child – that I know of – but I had my fair share in bedding servants. Your Grandfather Lord Eddard had a bastard, King Joffrey was a bastard but you would do well not to have your son turn out like _him_.”

“Are you not ashamed?”

“Of course he’s not,” Sansa whispered into Robb’s ear, massaging his auburn hair with her hand. “Are you Tyrion?”

He shook his head. “I love you and I will love your child. I am not ashamed.”

What was it that was gnawing Tyrion away then? Was it guilt for neglecting to realise what Robb was doing and stop it before it resulted in him becoming a father at fourteen? Could it have been Robb’s lack of discipline growing up as child that he took the company of women for granted? Robb was doing the right thing at least and was going to marry the girl he had spilled his seed into. It was an act Tyrion would have done to primarily piss of his father. Perhaps Tyrion e one who was ashamed because he did not have the honour his son had to marry a girl he spilled his seed into and made a babe to avoid a scandal and to protect her honour. If Tyrion felt anything, it was pride.

***

She wasn’t a marvellous beauty to behold in Sansa’s opinion, but she was very pretty with soft features and long dark hair. Grace would have been very much alike Sansa in her figure when she was of similar age, but it was difficult to tell with the large swelling belly on her. For a common girl she maintained good grace and elegance and manners, and she was sweet and witty and Robb seemed to like her enough. She was not the worst person Robb could have put his baby in.

They were left alone together, Sansa and Grace, and Sansa could see that this made the young girl uneasy. Sansa remembered how when she had been Grace’s age she was terrified to be in the presence of old and more powerful women. It was not a feeling that Sansa wanted Grace to feel.

“It is an honour to be allowed to share your hearth, Lady Sansa,” Grace stumbled.

“Please just call me Sansa; you will be my daughter soon. Will your mother and father attend your wedding?”

Sansa regretted asking Grace about her parents the second she saw the wretchedness engulf her face. Perhaps she and Grace were more alike than Sansa may have initially thought.

“My mother died on the birthing bed and I never met my father.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she appeased. “My own parents died when I was young. Who looked after you?”

“An Innkeeper and his wife. They could not have children so they took me in. They died of the Golden Plague three years ago and since then I came under service to Princess Alyse.”

“So you are accustom to court?”

“Only as handmaiden, my Lady.”

“ _Sansa_ ,” Sansa corrected. “Court has changed since King Joffrey died. When King Joffrey sat the throne I feared for the lives of my children, now that Alayne is Queen and her husband is the kind King Lucian, we do not have the worry as much anymore. Of course I fear that plague may strike my children or war will break out and tear them asunder, but you should have little to no worries when you go to Winterfell. The winter will end and you should be safe in the north, your son will be heir and your daughter a proud Lady. I think you will like Winterfell.”

“I think so too,” Grace agreed. “Robb has been most kind to me.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that.”

“Sometimes I still wake in the night and expect to be in the Inn,” she confessed. “Not the future Lady of Winterfell, married to _the_ Robb Lannister, his child inside me and in the warmth and I will never go hungry. My future sister is the Queen and brother – sorry, I sometimes talk too much.”

Sansa smiled. “It’s fine. You are welcome to sup with us and break your fast until you go to Winterfell with Robb. Tyrion has spoken with the High Septon and he has agreed to marry you and Robb in the Godswood in three weeks.”

“Thank you,” Grace breathed, placing a hand on her swollen belly. “You have been most kind.”

Kindness was a rarity in King’s Landing, but it was something that Sansa always delivered plenty on.

***

“You’re leaving?” Tyrion asked in astonishment. “When?”

“After Grandfather’s funeral,” Tyran replied. “I thought it suitable to leave King’s Landing and start as Lord of Casterly Rock as soon as possible. Uncle Kevan is holding it in my stead; he agrees it will be good for me to start my duties quickly. I’ll travel with Grandfather’s body to Casterly Rock the day after his funeral.”

“And what about Robb’s wedding?”

“If Robb and Grace wed after Grandfather’s funeral then I shall stay; the funeral is to be on the last cycle of the moon.”

“It’s all very rushed,” Tyrion claimed. “You ought to wait out the year here-”

“-You can come with me,” Tyran offered. “You and mother and Robb can ride with me, wait until Robb turns sixteen and ride back to King’s Landing while Robb continues to Winterfell.”

“The ride to Casterly Rock takes too long; Grace would have her baby on the road and it could be dangerous. How could we leave Alayne here?”

“She’s the Queen and you’re going to be her Hand.”

Tyrion frowned. “Lucian’s proposing the position to Mace Tyrell.”

“Does that bother you?”

“The less ties I have to King’s Landing the better, but I’m anchored down that my daughter is the Queen and I cannot leave her. You can ride to Casterly Rock after your Grandfather’s funeral with the Silent Sisters if you truly wish to. I give you my blessing.”

Tyran would have gone even if Tyrion had been against it, but Tyran seemed grateful with his approval. “Uncle Kevan wants me to wed his Granddaughter Selene.”

“Do you want to?”

“It’s not what I want, it’s what I have to do for House Lannister.”

“When you open your mouth I can practically hear my father’s voice coming out of you. Forget everything he said. You don’t owe him anything. Marry Kevan’s Granddaughter if you want to, and don’t if you do not. It is your decision; he is not here to control you anymore.”

“He never controlled me he just wanted me to make the right decisions in life. I will miss you when I go, and I’ll miss Robb’s son or daughter being born which is sad. You can come to Casterly Rock at anytime father; I would host a tourney in your honour.”

“If you do marry Selene, bring her to the capitol to meet us and you _must_ wed here.”

“Father-”

“If I’m allowing my first born child to leave home at sixteen-years-old then you can have the decency to get married with your family here. I won’t hear any arguments.”

The Lord of Casterly Rock admired the view over from the balcony. “It has not snowed all month. I think autumn is returning."

"You have not lived long enough to see an autumn. You might not make it to Casterly Rock in the winter, if only you would stay.

“I will miss you when I’m gone, and mother and Robb and Alayne too,” he let out a deep sigh. “His death really fucked things up, didn’t it?”

As did his mere existence.

***

The funeral for Lord Tywin was a dull affair. There were not as many in attendance as there had been for King Joffrey, she told Lucian that the rain had driven everyone inside.

Under the Great Sept's lofty dome of glass and gold and crystal, Lord Tywin Lannister's body rested upon a stepped marble bier. At its head Tyran stood at vigil, his hand resting on the sword that had once been her brother Jaime’s he now called Peacekeeper. The silent sisters had armoured Lord Tywin as if to fight some final battle. He wore his finest plate, heavy steel enamelled a deep, dark crimson, with gold inlay on his gauntlets, greaves, and breastplate. His rondels were golden sunbursts; a golden lioness crouched upon each shoulder; a maned lion crested the greathelm beside his head. Upon his chest lay a longsword in a gilded scabbard studded with rubies, his hands folded about its hilt in gloves of gilded mail. Even in death his face is noble, she thought, although the mouth... The corners of her father's lips curved upward ever so slightly, giving him a look of vague bemusement. That should not be. That half smile made Lord Tywin seem less fearful, somehow. That, and the fact that his eyes were closed. Her father's eyes had always been unsettling; pale green, almost luminous, flecked with gold. His eyes could see inside you, could see how weak and worthless and ugly you were down deep. When he looked at you, you knew.

It smelt awful in the Sept. Lord Tywin’s body had been rotting for days because his Grandson could not decide to host a funeral here or at Casterly Rock. It would not have mattered; no less people would have attended in the west than in the capital.

Women sang and soon the funeral came to an end, everybody leaving quite quickly to avoid the smell. Cersei lingered though when she saw that Tyran had not moved either. Cersei moved through the crowd to her eldest nephew and ascended the steps.

“You stand guard over him like a Knight of the Kingsguard,” Cersei noted. “You loved him.”

“He was my Grandfather. I spent more time with him than I did my own father. How are you, Aunt Cersei?”

She gave him a small smile. _Father succeeded with this heir, it was just a shame it couldn’t have been Jaime._ “Never better.”

A silence passed between them both, but neither of them seemed to care much. Tyran stared down at his Grandfather sullenly while Cersei stared at her nephew. _I see what all the ladies mean; he is very handsome._ He looked like Jaime: golden hair, green eyes and a chiselled face as if carved from marble. It surprised Cersei that such a boy could come from Tyrion’s seed _if he even is Tyrion’s at all._

“I understand you are returning to Casterly Rock in a fortnight.” Cersei linked her arm through Tyran’s. “Ride with me back to the castle.”

“If it pleases your Grace,” Tyran agreed. “And I am going to the Rock after Robb and Grace have wed.”

“A surprise to us all,” Cersei acknowledged. “When will you wed?”

“I have agreed to marry Uncle Kevan’s Granddaughter Selene, your Grace.” _That is not the Uncle’s Granddaughter you would like to marry though, is it?_ “I have been told she is a very lovely girl, talented on the harp and at singing.”

“But that is not what a man looks for in a wife, is it?”

“No, your Grace. Her father Martyn assures me she is very beautiful.”

“Whose twin was murdered by your Uncle’s men,” the Queen Regent announced as they stepped out into the brisk air and they made haste for the Queen’s litter. “I am sure she will make you very happy. How old is she?”

“Of a similar age to my brother: five-and-ten.”

“There are no Godswoods close to Casterly Rock; you could not marry her in sight of the Old Gods as your brother will.”

“I choose to marry her in sight of the Seven. My brother and mother takes the Old Gods while my sister and father and I worship the Seven.”

They climbed into Cersei’s litter, their knees touching each others in the tight space. “How honourable. Undoubtedly my father told you about the Tyrell’s scheme.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Tyran replied. “I found it disgusting.”

“As did I when my father told me. I wanted them to be put to death for what they did to my Grandchildren and defying Joff. The Baratheon’s were never their enemies; they consisted of Stannis who was put down and Tommen and Joff. It was _us_ that they should have been frightened for,” the younger boy nodded. “The Baratheon name will not continue through the King’s children. Princess Alyse will marry of another house and Mace Tyrell will convince her to take his name to the throne instead of keep her own. After then, who does the crown fall to?”

“Cersei Baratheon.”

“Cersei Baratheon: my Granddaughter” Cersei confirmed. “But my father had already told you this: how she will marry the Arryn boy and so forth, resulting in the Lannister’s on the throne.”

“Grandfather told me as much.”

The litter jolted into action, the wheels hitting rocks and the sides of the road, Aunt and Nephew’s knees colliding often. She reached over and took hold of his knee, looking up at the sixteen-year-old boy who sat down was taller than Cersei.

“The sooner you leave King’s Landing the better,” said Cersei, “the sooner you are away from my eldest Granddaughter, the better. Don’t act coy with me. Half the castle knows that the two of you share each other’s beds. My advice to you is to leave King’s Landing after your brother’s wedding and never return. Do not speak of what you did to her, do not write to her or express desire to see her because it _will_ be rebuffed. Are we at an understanding?”

***

If he was Robb with his courage and wits he might have argued with the Queen Regent. Tyran didn’t like the pressure, the guilt he felt for bedding the Princess when everybody knew about it and lying in the process.

“I will leave the following day of the wedding,” Tyran agreed. “But Alyse will try and write and visit.”

“I shall stop _Princess_ Alyse from doing such thing. Once you are gone I shall propose to wed her to a young Lord and host a tourney in her name while you will go to Casterly Rock and marry Selene. I will not have you disgrace my Alyse anymore than you have already done so for you have upset her past words.”

"You love her."

"She is the last thing of Joff that I have."

"Lucuan."

"And I love Lucian also - a mother loves her children and she adores the children of them. You never met my daughter Myrcella. When Alyse was born into this world I held her before her own mother and I thought she was Myrcella returned to me between the thighs of the little Tyrell whore. I do what I do for Alyse because I don't want her trapped in the same life as Myrcella and I both are. Alyse would love any children any man gives her, but she will not love that man like she loves you. The fewer links she has with any man the better."

“I love her too," Tyran croaked. “I always will.”

She removed her hand from his leg, sat back and smiled at him patronisingly. “What do you know about love, Tyran?”

“That what I feel for Alyse is love. I will not leave or forget her without a farewell.”

“It may be too late for that,” the Queen Regent smiled sweetly. “She made for Highgarden before the funeral with Willas Tyrell and a host of three hundred men. If you want to say farewell then do it in a letter and give it to me so I can ensure that a raven does not lose it.”

 _Does lose it. Do not speak down to me, Aunt Cersei._ But he did not have the nerve to declare those words. “I shall write to her when I have reached Casterly Rock and if a raven loses my letter then so be it. At least I would have said farewell.”

“Farewells are dangerous Tyran and you should do well to remember that.”

He stared out the window of the litter, watching the sept on Visenya’s Hill slowly fade out of view. While he looked out of the litter, his Aunt stared into him. Tyran did well to avoid meeting her gaze, rode in silence and sat still against the movement of the litter. He would be gone soon and Alyse had done so already. The Warden of the West could not even remember the last words he had spoken to her, but he hoped it had been a justifiable farewell.

 


	31. Twice as Much to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Grace wed, Alayne improves the game, Robb thinks about a lost friend while his wife gives him an heir.

“You did not kill Tywin and Cersei Lannister?” The Faceless Man demanded. It was not so much of a question but a statement. “ _Why_?”

“There was no time,” said the girl coolly. “I had poisoned King Joffrey as you commanded but I was... _distracted_.”

“Distracted,” coughed the second Faceless man with the bright blue Tyroshi hair. “You train as a Faceless Man to prevent distractions.”

“I killed one and Lord Tywin is already dead. Cersei Lannister will fall next; she has no children, her Grandson comes of age in three years and her power will diminish. If we do not kill her first then she will do it herself.”

The Faceless man with the dark hair who had spoken to her first smashed his fist down on the table. “ _Damn you._ Fifty thousand gold coins we got for the murders of King Joffrey and Lord Tywin – we told the Dornish men it was _you_ who murdered the Warden of the West so we could get our gold. Why were you trusted with this mission? Who assigned you?” _The Kindly Old man._ “Who are you?”

“I am no one,” she breathed.

“You better stay as no one for your own sake girl; and you better hope that Princess Arianne does not hold us liable for not murdering Cersei Lannister. Now fuck off.”

She did as she was told and returned to her chambers within the walls of the  quarters where her son slept softly across the room from her own bed. She pulled up the wolf skin covers on her son, crossed the room, sat on her bed and watched him sleep.

“Who is it? Who’s there?” Came the nasally voice from her son.

“No one,” Arya Stark said softly. “It is no one.”

***

She did not like the south and only made it to Grassfield Keep before deciding to return to King’s Landing, but the ride to Grassfield Keep had taken a fortnight, and stayed in the castle for a few days before returning to King’s Landing. Princess Alyse had never been fond of riding, especially when her company was with no one of a similar age and with one thousand Tyrell men and men who served them. She was tired and cold and always sore, but the primary reason why she turned back was because she did not enjoy parting with Tyran on bad terms.

But by the time she had returned to the Red Keep, her Grandmother informed her that he had already left.

***

Robb and Grace said their vows in the Godswood with only Robb's mother and father and sister and good brother. Robb did not need anybody to pass judgement on his wedding to the woman who was eight moons turned with his babe. He would not allow his marriage to be a spectical of amusement. 

He was fond of his new wife; she was not the worst out of all the women he had bedded to have succeeded in producing him a child. She made him laugh, fed him out of her hand, poured him wine and made him gifts. Convinced that their child would be a boy, Grace made collections of clothes for the future Lord and scarce made any for a daughter.

They did not have a feast after the wedding, Robb had insisted that it just be the seven of them and dine on a luxurious meal in the dining quarters. With the King present, the servants created a feast better than Robb had asked for with water and wine and beer and iced milk. Singers sang to them as they supped and when they drank, sat on loungers and arm chairs in the living quarters as they danced and laughed and talked. It was a splendid evening.

***

When Robb stood in the Godswood before the Old Gods, Sansa thought of her own parents wedding in Riverrun beneath the Weirwood tree so many years ago. Sansa wondered what her mother and father would think of her little Robb – not getting Grace with a child, but in general. Would they have liked him? Would Lord Eddard think him suitable to be the Lord of Winterfell? Sansa certainly thought so, feeling proud as her son kissed his new wife under the tree. He was happy with her; they might have married out of love if the Gods had given Grace a higher power in life. If he was not in love with her already, by the time she birthed his child he would be.

“Two wed and one left,” Tyrion whispered to his wife at the dinner, his breath hot and wine scented against her neck.

She put a hand on his arm. “Let’s not talk about Tyran.”

“As you wish,” Tyrion said, “more wine?”

“Yes please.”

***

“Perhaps if you weren’t fucking that bastard boy you would have my child already!”

Lucian received a blow in the face: Alayne punching him square between the nose. The King staggered and fell back onto his bed, crying and clutching his nose as it bled crimson onto their bed sheets.

“I am _not_ sharing a bed with any man but you, but I wished to the Gods I would,” she rounded on him, pulled him up by his collar so he faced her, their faces were inches away from a kiss. “As I lay there as you do you what you do the little you can do, listen to your wheezing and your coughing I pray to the Gods it is over before it begins. I wish I was sleeping with Tyrion Tanner; he could put a child in me quicker than you wake up in the morning, run to your chamber pot and vomit.”

She could see the wounding expression on her face. She tried to feel sympathy for him but it was difficult when she lived her life as a Queen, resented by all and blamed because she had not give the King a child. It was not her fault. It could not be her fault. Her mother told her that men spilled their seed in the act, but King Lucian had never once done that.

“I love you,” he managed.

She released him and he fell back onto the bed. “I may have loved you but how can I when you treat me so ill?”

“What can I do?”

 _You can die and let me marry a man who did not vomit on me in the act._ But she did not want him to die; he was a good husband despite the night they spent together. She could have a husband who was talented in the bedroom but a horror outside of it. He had made her Queen: a powerful woman – more powerful than either of her brothers which had been her intention from the beginning.

“Let me have a child, Lucian. Even if it is not yours do not deprive me of motherhood.”

“There is still time.”

Judging by the state of him: his illness, his exhaustion and lack of seed, there was little time for him. _But there is still time for me,_ she grasped. She would not remain unwed for long after her husband died of weakness and join his mother and father and sister in the Seven Heavens. Alayne would wed again to a rich man – not as powerful as the King, but as a former Queen she would have maintain the authority. _Especially if I get with child. It does not have to be his. Just a child to be King after him._

"All I want is a child, Lucian. A little girl to plait and brush her hair and dress in pretty gowns, to teach to ride a horse and how to be a woman, or a son to teach to read and ride horses. I want daughters called Jeyne and Catherine and Eleanor and sons named Oliver and Jasper and Stefan. Don't you want that for me?"

"I want that too! I want that with you."

Alayne smiled sadly. "But I can never have that with you."

"You'll have to wait until I die."

"But I don't want you to die."

"My death means your child. The daughters and sons you crave for that I know I can never truly give you. Bed as many men as you desire if it makes you happy and gives you a child - the Gods know I'll be happy so long as you are, and any child you get with... That child will be my beloved heir. Be happy Alayne."

But how could she be happy if he did not walk the land?

***

He rode out early the day of Robb's wedding; taking Cersei’s advice that farewells were painful and he would do best to avoid them. Tyran wrote each member of his family a letter, the longest to his father and the shortest was his brother’s. The Lord of Casterly Rock and all of the men Lord Tywin had brought to King’s Landing with him were returning home before the crack of dawn.

The Red Keep was especially beautiful in the morning: the way the pink sky reflected against the stain-glassed windows, the colours dancing in the light. He could hear the musicians and harpists that filled the halls with their harmonies and the smell of the morning’s bread filled his nostrils. He unwrapped some of his own and took a bite of it ravenously and downed some wine from his moleskin pouch.

The Lord of Casterly Rock adjusted himself on his horse and released the furs that hung around his neck. “Let us ride,” he declared, pulling his horse to the front of the host. “And may the Gods bless us."

***

Alayne did not sleep. She sat by the window doing her embroidery by the moonlight for the entirety of the darkness. She saw her brother ride off at dawn without telling her family and the Queen thought it was a very spiteful thing for him to do. If she had watched Robb saddle his horse and ready to depart, she would have ran down to the yard and called him back. But it was her sombre brother Tyran who left prematurely, and all Alayne had the motivation to do was watch as he rode with his host down the Kingsroad to the west.

A few hours after Tyran left, before the castle had properly awoken, a hoard of horses road up to the keep. She dropped her needlework, expecting to see her golden haired brother shake off his helmet and drop from his horse, but it was her good-sister Alyse with the Baratheon host she had departed with. Alayne cast a look at her sleeping husband, contemplating whether or not to wake him to tell him the news. _I shall not,_ she decided. _I prefer him when he sleeps. He cannot shame himself while he sleeps._

***

“What do you mean he’s already gone?” Alyse fretted. “I – I – he wasn’t supposed to leave until this afternoon!”

Alayne shrugged. “He left early. He wrote letters though.”

“Did he leave me one?”

“Why would he?” The Queen asked coolly. “You were only his friend.”

“We were damn more than that and you know it Alayne,” the golden haired girl spat at the Queen’s feet. “Did he leave me a letter?”

“No.”

The Princess stopped pacing in their quarters and stood motionless. Her arms dropped to her side like a rag doll and let out a cry.

“Is it too late to catch up to him?”

Alayne was unsure whether or not to feel pity for the Princess. “He left hours before you even got here, Alyse. You can attempt to ride out and meet him but he might have taken a ship or cut through the Kingswood to avoid a build up on the Kingsroad. You’ll ride alone if you want to find him. Just let him go.”

“He went to Casterly Rock to get away from me,” Alyse confessed.

“Why?”

Princess Alyse shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”

“Your _Queen_ demands it.”

“The only Queen I know and will acknowledge is Queen Margaery Tyrell who died six years ago. You are not my Queen. You will never be my Queen all you will be is my repulsive little brother’s wife. For as long as you are Queen I shall stand against you. When my brother dies – which I am sure will be _very_ soon – I shall dance beside his pyre and announce myself Queen the day that he dies, where you will be cast aside and sent North with your brother and Westeros will be _mine_ as it rightly should be.”

“Well I hope you have better luck producing heirs than your brother.”

Alyse’s eyes flickered, her face turned from angry to bitter and resentful. “What did your brother tell you about why he left? Where is your letter?”

 _Did you not want me to know that you and your brother can never be parents? What a shame it would be if your secret was exposed._ “I burned it. I didn’t think it wise if the information fell into the wrong hands.”

“ _What do you know_?” Hissed the Baratheon Princess.

“I know nothing,” Alayne smiled sweetly. She picked up a cup of wine from the table and raised it, preparing a toast. “Long live House Baratheon.” And she drank heavily and deeply from the goblet, maintaining eye contact with her good-sister throughout.

***

Robb thought it would be a good idea to take his new wife riding down the coast of Blackwater Bay: his favourite place in King’s Landing. The only flaw in the plan was that Robb had failed to ask if his wife could ride, and she could not and gripped the saddle and the horse’s main in both hands, steadying herself as the mare descended the steep hill from the Red Keep down onto the shore.

It was a reasonably warm day but the clouds covered the sky like a wolf skin blanket. Robb eventually tied the two horses together, their hooves rhythmically sinking into the white sand. The horse she rode was one that the King presented her with for their wedding: a brown mare she named Rose for the inn where she had been raised as a child.

“I used to play down here with Alysanne,” Robb recalled fondly, turning their horses into the sea. “We would play with the common children. She always liked to play come-into-my-castle so she could teach the less fortunate proper manners.”

“Do you miss her?” His wife asked gravely.

“Every day. She was one of my closest friends before she died, I loved her but we were not as close as my brother and her sister, but we would always play together and pray together in the sept and sometimes she would pray to the Old Gods with me. I really do miss her.” Grace leaned over the horse and took Robb’s hand. “Aren’t you scared you’ll fall?”

“Not when you’re here.”

Two guards rode a little distant behind them, the pair of them talking to one another. Robb cast a glance behind him, and then up at the Red Keep. He wondered if anybody was spying on him, if somebody had a spy or two hiding in the rocks. Robb then turned his attention back to Grace who had a hand on her swollen belly.

“Everybody says I’m larger than your mother was,” Grace commented. “Your mother thinks it will be a boy because my belly is straight and does not sag. Your father thinks it will be a girl because it is causing my grief.”

“And what do you think it is?”

“I don’t care as long as it is healthy and happy.”

“I think it’s a boy,” Robb said, “I would like a boy to teach to ride horses and how to fight with swords. Then again I would love a girl for you to make dresses with, style her hair.”

Grace giggled. “Is that all you think girls do?”

“No. I know you are strong, and you are kind and will make an excellent mother to our child. I’d like a large family.”

“So would I,” Grace agreed with a smile. “Five or six or maybe even ten.”

“Ten children would be a lot. I don’t think I’d remember their names.”

“You would,” she disagreed. “But you’d forget what they were called on purpose to annoy them. I think you’ll make a wonderful father to our child because you’ve been such a wonderful husband to me.”

Robb kissed his wife’s hand and then released it and she returned it to the back of the horse’s head, maintaining her steady rhythm on the horse. “I think I might be in love with you,” he confessed.

“Oh really?” She turned her head towards him. “Because I think I might be in love with you too.”

“I’m pleased you said it; I would have looked a fool if you didn’t.”

“You could never be a fool to me, Robb; you saved my life and the life of our child. Did you think I would survive, birthing the child on the floor of some foul tavern? Our child would not live either, fed nothing and drinking nothing. I cannot thank you enough.”

“You don’t need to; it would’ve been my fault if you died; I shouldn’t have fucked you and dishonoured you and I would’ve felt guilty if you and my child died. I’m pleased I saved two lives instead of sending two to their deaths because of what I did.”

“You did nothing that other people don’t do, my love,” she soothed. “You saved me but you can help others like me. You can donate to the poor, clothe orphans and feed the hungry.”

“I will,” Robb oathed, then he laughed. “I’ve never thought about any of this before. I always assumed everybody led the life that my family does and I never really cared when I learned the truth. You bring out the best in me, Lady Grace- and of course the worst.”

“I’d kiss you if I wasn’t so scared of falling of my horse,” she admitted. “I do love you.”

“I love you too.”

***

The following week, Grace fell into labour with their first child.

It happened all suddenly. She had been sewing with Queen Alayne when the baby started to move around in her belly, but she thought it was merely getting comfortable. She stood up to pour herself a glass of water when she dropped the embroidery work and doubled over, clutching her stomach in agony.

She was returned to hers and Robb’s chambers by the Maesters and midwives and put to bed. The Queen remained by her side until Sansa arrived who took over her place while Alayne went to find her brother whom had been walking the walls with his father. Sansa put wet clothes on her good-daughter’s forehead, held her hand when the baby moved violently around her and fed her milk of the poppy when she demanded it to make the pain subside.

All the while, Robb was outside the room pacing. He could not bring himself to enter the room. He could hear his wife’s screams from outside the door and could not bear to hear what was happening, let alone see it. Robb knew it was most honourable to be by his lady wife’s bedside as she birthed his first child, but he was too craven to be present and see the blood and the baby crowning from her cunt.

“Get inside there!” His father demanded for the third time. “She is your _wife_ and she is going to give you your _child_ in a few hours! I stayed with your mother throughout the entire process and now she sits in there holding Grace’s hand as a human is pulled from her body! Even my own bloody father was present in my birth and my brother and sister’s. If you do not attend then you are no better than Joffrey!”

“I _am_ better than him father, I am just afraid.”

“Afraid?” Tyrion reiterated.

“Your mother died in the birthing bed, what if that happens to Grace? How could I stand to watch my child be pulled from Grace and watch the life be extinguished from her? I love her father! I can’t watch her die.”

Tyrion grabbed his son by his arms and shook him. “Listen to me you fool! Grace will not die! Gods... If she knew you were out there and not with her she would hate you for it, and your mother – your mother would be so _ashamed_ of you. She did not raise you to run away from your responsibilities. You married Grace because of honour and what honour is there in hiding behind a door as your wife does the most incredible thing you are about to witness? If you do not go in there and hold her hand as she screams, pulling your bloody baby from her body then you are not the son I thought I had. I thought it was Tyran who ran away from responsibilities, _not_ Robb Stark.”

Robb Stark. Stark. Starks were honourable and receiving. They were bold and they were brave. Starks do not hide from danger and they do what is best. With a deep breath, Robb opened the door to his chambers and ran to Grace’s bedside.

But she had already given birth when he entered.

***

It had been an exceptionally quick labour; Grace had began the process hours before she knew that her baby was coming. It took only two hours in the bed for their son to be pulled from her, and an extra five minutes for their daughter.

***

Robb was in a daze. In her arms she held two children and Robb could not believe that they were his. He stumbled towards Grace’s side, collapsing in the chair that his mother had recently occupied but stood to allow Robb to take instead. He gazed at his wife in astonishment and could not remember a time that she had ever looked more beautiful.

“Twins,” she croaked, her voice low and hoarse.

“Twins,” Robb echoed. “Twins.”

His mother left the room, rubbing his shoulder on her way out and joined his father in the corridor.

“Would you like to hold one?” Robb nodded. “Which one?”

“I don’t mind.”

She handed him their son: the child who had entered the world first. He was tiny and the smallest babe that Robb had ever seen. The babe wriggled in his arms and looked up at him with his mystical brown eyes and delicately, Robb ran a finger over his thin tufts of brown hair.

“Eddard,” Robb breathed. “I’d like to call him Eddard.”

“That’s beautiful,” Grace breathed. “Eddard Lannister.”

“No,” Robb disagreed. “Eddard Stark.”

She smiled at him. “Eddard Stark, I like that. Your mother would be pleased. And what about our daughter?”

“ _Daughter_?”

Grace had not mentioned that she had given him a daughter too, and as he held Eddard in his arms he seemed to forget the other child who lay in his wife’s. Not out of spite, but because he was so in love with Eddard it put him in a trance. His daughter looked so much alike to his son: thin brown hair but she had his blue eyes and he laughed, kissing his daughter’s hand.

“What shall we name her?” Grace asked. “I want it to be your choice.”

He thought about naming her Catelyn, but thought it inappropriate if he gave his son and daughter the same names as husband and wife. A former brother and sister however.

“Lyanna,” he breathed.

“That’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” Robb spluttered. “Lyanna is beautiful – Eddard is beautiful. Winterfell is beautiful. I can’t wait to take you and our children there, Grace.”

She gave him a quick kiss on his lips. “I know. Go and get your mother and father; they’ll want to meet their Grandchildren.”

***

She gave his son two beautiful children: a boy and a girl named Eddard and Lyanna who Tyrion hoped would never be as close as their Great Aunt and Uncle. He had not held a babe since Alayne had been born, but when Grace passed him Lyanna he imagined it was his darling Alayne in his arms, squirming and gurgling a long time before she became Queen.

“See how strong they are,” Robb gushed. “Ned is bigger than Lyanna, but she will grow bigger when she gets older. Mother, do you want to hold Ned?”

***

Sansa could have wept when she held her first Grandchild in her arms. He was awake and staring up at Sansa with his big, brown eyes and already she could see so much of her father in him. Robb had honoured her family in naming his son and heir Eddard Stark. If Joffrey and Lord Tywin were alive they never would have allowed it, and she panicked when Robb first told them of their names in fear that they would be hurt because of it. It took several seconds to remember that Arya had poisoned the King and Lord Tywin had died many weeks ago. The only person obligated to dispute the name was Cersei, and she was only Queen Regent and the current Queen was Robb’s younger and closest sibling and the King was his best friend. Cersei Lannister was getting old and fat and drunk like her deceased husband King Robert and perhaps she would die as a result to it too. Sansa hoped she would.

“He is beautiful,” Sansa spoke softly. “My father would be proud of you, Robb.”

“He’d be proud of you too,” Tyrion complimented to his wife. “You raised our son to know who were right and who were wrong in this.”

Tyrion seldom acknowledged the harm that his family had done her in the war. He would reason with her, claiming that by orchestrating the Red Wedding they had saved thousands of innocent lives and only killed a few hundred at a dinner. But how would he have liked it if were people he loved and relied on to bring him back to safety? She could not forgive him; though Tyrion was not directly involved he never once tried to see the Red Wedding through Sansa’s perspective. She hoped that by giving him grandchildren and a child who would in a year’s time, become Starks, he might feel more sympathy for her.

***

Eddard Stark: the man who had correctly and openly defied Joffrey as being a false heir, born of incest. Lyanna Stark: the woman who had captured Rhaegar Targaryen’s heart and in the process, destroyed the Targaryen legacy. But his son and wife would never see the fault in those names because they were Starks and they failed to see dishonour in anyone and anything.

Tyrion drank heavily from his wine that evening, leaving Sansa and Alayne with Robb and Grace and their twins. He did not love them any less than his wife, but he did not appreciate the names they had been given; after all, those Stark siblings had been the turning point for Robert’s Rebellion and the War of the Five Kings. Tyrion would have been no less pleased if Robb had named their son Tywin or daughter Cersei. He himself wanted to name Alayne for his mother Joanna, but had set aside that decision because his wife was so eager – or pushed towards – the name Alayne. The imp never said anything, and in the present time drained his cup of wine.

***

Alayne would have loved for Ned to be her son. She did not have any children and she found it unfair that Robb had two when she had none. He had not initially wanted the twins either. Alayne would have loved her child the instant she discovered she was with one.

The love she felt for Ned and Lyanna was bottomless. The Queen almost cried when she handed Lyanna back to Grace to be fed, but fled the room because she did not want them to see her cry. Alayne returned to her chambers to find her husband lying in bed, and she mounted him in hope to finally be given a child, but she knew it would be futile; they had tried hundreds of times already. Why would this one be any special?

She cried softly into her pillow that night for the children she would never have while married to Lucian. Alayne could not blame herself and she would not blame the King as her mother had advised her. Lady Sansa told her that the Gods were withholding her having a child because they were getting ready to give her a special one. For a few days she believed that until Robb told her that he had gotten a girl pregnant and sobbed because he didn’t know what to do about it. It was then Alayne realised that the Gods were merciless and that she hated them.


	32. Like the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyran weds and joins a new family, Robb lacks the skills to be a father while somebody else longawaitingly gets theirs.

_Robb,_

_I send you and Grace my congratulations on your son and daughter. I am sure that mother was delighted when you told her the names. I always knew you would call your son Eddard and please remind Alayne that she owes me one gold dragon for getting the name correct (she thought you’d name him Tyrion)._

_I bring other news from the west and my apologies. First please give my apologies to mother and father because I did not wed Selene in the Sept of Baelor, but at the Sept at Casterly Rock. I cannot bring myself to write to mother myself and tell her she could not be present to her first son’s wedding, and I was sincerely hoping you could do it for me._

He wed her in the Sept, wrapping her in the crimson Lannister cloak as his family watched them beneath the eyes of the Seven at the sept of Casterly Rock. Lord Tyran wanted his family present, but he had to wed Selene quickly and could not wait for his family to make the voyage west, especially with twins who were scarcely a month old and the King who, Robb wrote to him in letters, was growing weaker by the days and extending his hand out to Death with every passing hour.

Selene was not a bad girl. Of course she was pretty as every Lannister was with the obvious Lannister green eyes and blonde hair, slim figure but small breasts. When Robb initially saw her he believed her to be the lesser looking sister of the beautiful and mature Cyan Lannister who was quite possibly the most beautiful Lady that Tyran had laid his eyes on but she was married to a Lord from the Stormlands who she was very much in love with and five months with his child.

Tyran wed Selene Lannister in sight of the New Gods, wrapping her in the Lannister cloak to put her under his protection, and he politely kissed her, led her through the sept and dined with her at the feast and could not stop thinking about how he had wronged Alyse.

He could not stop comparing the two: Alyse Baratheon and Selene Lannister. Alyse made him laugh and made him angry, she was more beautiful and wild and of a similar age. Selene was timid and quiet, never quarrelled with him and would rather spend her time embroidering with her younger sister Sian and singing and praying in the Sept. She was also two years Tyran’s junior which he would not have minded if he did not keep imagining her to be his sister.

_Selene is a nice girl and fair on the eyes and kind. I know that mother and father would have approved and liked her, but I wanted to marry her as quickly as possible. If there is anything that Grandfather’s death taught me is that it can strike at any time, that you should cease opportunities when they are given to you and not hesitate. But I will admit to you Robb, that the bedding was not very satisfying as I thought it would be._

The bedding came around and they were carried to their chambers. The women stripped Tyran as he laughed with them, accepting their crude comments while the men stripped Lady Selene who looked close to tears and came to Tyran, her face as red as the cloak he had given her and shaking like a frightened puppy.

“Gods,” Tyran breathed when he saw her, covering herself modestly with her hands while he stood before her with no shame in his body. There was nothing exceptional about her, only that without her clothes on he drifted from the connection with his sister and closer to the one with Alyse. “How was that?”

“I didn’t mind, my Lord.”

“Stop calling me, my Lord,” Tyran said through gritted teeth.

“Sorry,” she apologised.

“Call me Tyran.”

She nodded. “Okay... Tyran.”

Selene kept herself covered up and an eerie silence passed between the two. It was modestly warm in their chambers, the fire was roaring and it had not snowed in the west for three months. Winter was coming to an end now, Tyran was grateful for that at least.

“Have you ever done this before?” Selene blurted out. “No... Of course you haven’t... You’re too – too – _honourable_.”

Everybody called Robb honourable for marrying the girl whom he put a child in. Honourable was not a word often used to describe Tyran who fucked the Princess and had no shame about it.

“Honourable,” he laughed. “Have you ever?”

“No," she said suddenly. 

Of course she hadn’t. Tyran glanced towards the door and stepped over to her. He took the hand that covered her firm breast, and the other that covered her cunt which had small wisps of golden hair covering it. She winced as he took her hand, drawing in on herself like an animal when he looked at her and kissed her neck.

“I won’t hurt you,” Tyran promised.

“I believe you.”

_But of course I did what was expected of me (not that I minded too much) and I hope to be the next child to present them with Grandchildren for I would very much like to do so._

Tyran often thought about the children he would get one day, but had always imagined the mother to be Alyse. As he watched Selene sing in the Sept or embroider by the hearth, he could not imagine her belly swelling or screaming at the pain the labour brought on. It was near impossible to imagine her as a mother, and perhaps harder still to imagine him a father.

_I have also sent Ned and Lyanna nameday gifts which following ravens should give you._

He had spent ages wondering what to give Ned and Lyanna as their name day present. It struck him in the sept that he would have two golden wolves welded for them: Lyanna’s as a pendant and Ned’s as a pommel. The eyes were rubies and the bared fangs diamonds, but they were not as magnificent as the carved lion on his sword with the ruby eyes.

_Please Robb, tell mother what I did; I am too frightened of disappointing her to write the words myself. As my brother I hoped you would have the courage I lack to break the news for I cannot stand to_

_Nehw od ew kcatta?_

_Tyran Lannister_  
Lord of Casterly Rock  
Warden of the West

Robb thought his brother a craven. If he was too cowardly to tell their mother that he had wed without her presence and consent, then he should not have married Selene at all. In his hand he held the pendant and pommel and the other the letter. He considered throwing them both in the fire and pretending he never read his brother’s gutless words, but the thought of his mother discovering the marriage from somebody like Aunt Cersei made Robb rethink his plans. He set the pendant and pommel aside on the table and rose from his seat by the fire. He crossed the room to check on Ned and Lyanna who slept side by side in the crib, their little fingers almost touching each other, and he smiled and stroked the top of Ned’s head while Lyanna took his finger with her little hand.

His mother and father were sat in their private quarters drinking wine by the open window. It had been a particularly warm day and Robb had gone riding with Grace without his fur coat, the sun peered through the gathering clouds. Autumn would soon be upon them, he knew. Winter was no longer coming.

“I got a letter from Tyran,” Robb announced, holding up the letter. “He’s already wed Selene.”

Robb lowered his head when he said it. He understood what his brother meant by not wanting to disappoint their mother. Robb was only the messenger and he could not bring himself to look at his mother when he enlightened her on his brother’s current status.

“Oh,” his mother said.

“He couldn’t tell you himself; he was too craven.”

“Don’t call your brother craven,” his father advised. “He had to do what was expected of him. It was only time. Robb, who did you leave the twins with?”

He hesitated. “There are guards at the door.”

“Robb, what have I told you about leaving them?”

“There are guards at the door!”

“Well _go to them_ ,” father hissed through gritted teeth. “And make sure they have not hurt themselves when you left them alone.”

It was his father’s ‘subtle’ way of telling Robb to leave the room. He gave his Lord father the letter and backed from the room.

***

Neither of Sansa’s parents had been in attendance to her wedding. Nobody in her family had stood by her side as she was forced to wed Tyrion of House Lannister. Her father did not walk her through the Sept. King Joffrey had done that. Margaery and her Grandmother had stood in the place of her family, but they were long dead. Sansa promised that she would attend every one of her child’s weddings so they would not feel as she did: looking over their shoulder in sorrow to see that their family was not supporting them. She did not think that anyone would wish to wed without their family being there, least of all her son.

“Are you alright?” Tyrion asked her.

Was she fine about not being present to her eldest child’s wedding? Sansa did not know this Selene girl. She did not know if she would be good and kind to him. All three of her children were married and the eldest was barely six-and-ten. She was a Grandmother at nine-and-twenty and orphan at four-and-ten.

“Tyran is... I knew he wouldn’t wait and marry here. He’d want to do his duty by House Lannister and give them heirs as quickly as possible,” she spat the words ‘House Lannister’. “Even if that means his family couldn’t see him.”

“Don’t let it upset you.”

“Upset me,” she scoffed. “ _Upset me_.”

“It’s too late now. If Tyran was too busy to wait until he was at King’s Landing to marry then that is his business. Sansa, perhaps he didn’t want to marry in King’s Landing because of what happened with Helena.”

She had not thought of that, but Tyran had not grieved for Helena as someone might for the woman they were to wed the following day. He had not loved her. He had tolerated her.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she agreed doubtfully. “I want to see him.”

“So do I,” Tyrion confessed.

“We could go,” Sansa stated. “Like when we went to Winterfell: take our family and a few hundred men and ride west. Perhaps we could wait out the year at Casterly Rock then ride to Winterfell when Robb comes of age.”

“We’ve talked about this,” Tyrion said in a strained voice, “I would like to leave King’s Landing as much as you, but we cannot. The King is weak and bedridden and Alayne won’t leave his side. How can we ride when our daughter won’t ride with us?”

“We wait until Lucian dies,” she said coldly, “then we take Alayne and leave. It will be safer than staying in the capitol for Alyse’s coronation; we know she will be a Queen like her father was a King.”

“You love Lucian and you love Alyse for Margaery’s sake. You would not leave so soon after his death and now we have Ned and Lyanna to ride with too. They could contract so many diseases. It isn’t safe for two babes to be travelling – and it isn’t good for Grace either; she’s in delicate health.”

“Delicate health,” she echoed. “She had a baby.”

“With the Golden Plague still among us more babes and young women have suffered than anybody else. I would like to see Tyran as much as you, but it is not safe.”

Did he not love his son? Tyrion did not have to admit that he favoured Robb over Tyran, but he could have done a better job to hide it. Tyrion had agreed to ride north with Robb when he came of age. He had not discussed Grace or the twins falling out or the King’s death.

“So we do not see our son for perhaps two years?”

“He can always come and see us.”

But Sansa knew that Tyran wouldn’t leave Casterly Rock now that he was settled and wed and doing his duty in producing heirs. He would not return to the keep where he watched his Grandfather die and learned the news that his betrothed had done too. And it pained Sansa that Tyran did not love his family as much as they loved him.

***

Lord Tyran had been riding with his good-brothers Stefan and Septimus. They were twins and older than his wife by five years, both married and each with twins of their own. He enjoyed the company of his new brothers over the company of his new wife’s.

“You need to get a new horse, Ty,” called the dark-haired brother Stefan. “That one is getting so old it shits itself when it runs.”

Tyran patted his horse on the back of his head. “I’ve had him since I was a child. My Grandfather gave me this horse when I was a boy.”

“Get a new one,” Septimus advised: the golden haired, typical Lannister. “Anyone will sell to a Lannister, especially the _Lord_ of Lannister.”

“I won’t buy a new horse until this one dies,” Tyran commented.

They reared their horses to a halt at the keep and Tyran dismounted his. He had a folly that was too small for him to ride yet that would eventually replace the one that was nearly a decade old. Ten was not old for horses, but this one had been worn and rode so many times that it was not a wonder it tired easily and shit itself. Tyran gave it a handful of nuts and gave it to the stable boy Josef to be put away for the night then returned to his castle.

Selene was waiting for him; garbed in a purple gown he had given her a couple of weeks after their wedding. They had been married for three moons now and it was not particularly a happy marriage. Selene failed to please Tyran. She was not good at holding conversation or making him laugh, but her sister had snapped at him and claimed it was his fault; that he scared her and had too high expectations for women. But for Tyran, as long as Alyse was still alive there would never be anybody better.

“Hello,” she smiled, stepping out from behind the pillar.

“Hullo Selene.”

Her brothers had gone off in a different direction: towards the kitchens to get some luncheon while all Tyran wanted was a hot bath to ease his muscles and to clean the dirt off him. He did not want to be pestered by his wife.

“Cyan told me to come to you straight away,” she declared. “Can I walk with you?”

He shrugged. “Alright.”

She caught up with him and she took his arm. He stunk of sweat and horse and wet leather but that did not stop his Lady wife from keeping his company. She smiled to the people that passed them in the hallway as every proper Lady should. She made a good Lady, just a poor wife.

“I’m with child.”

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, and Selene took away her arm as quickly as she had taken his. She gave him a meek smile and played with the sleeves of her dress and fiddled with her necklace as if trying to appear busy. The Warden of the West took a shark inhale of breath and then smiled. Shouldn’t he be happier? He had wanted children and never knew how badly he wanted them since he discovered that Alyse could not have any, but his young wife had told him she was wife child and he stood there in silence unaware of how to feel.

“Do you know how many months?”

“Maester Robhurts says my symptoms show three moons.”

 _Three moons._ “And you failed to notice?”

“I – I continued to bleed. I went to him because I was sick and sore and he tested me and declared I was with child.”

He reminded himself that he was going to be a father and that he should be thrilled, but the joyfulness disappeared when it shocked him that Alyse was not the mother of his child: the woman that he loved. It seemed wrong that Selene would be the mother to his child when he did not love her and barely liked her.

“Well,” he said and forced a smile, “I have always wanted to be a father.”

Selene took his hand and placed it on her belly. It seemed firmer than usual, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand erect. “You’ll be a good father, Ty,” she promised. “And our babe will love you.”

***

Princess Alyse received her first letter from Tyran in the three moons that he had been gone. She received it as she broke her fast with her Grandmother as she did every other morning, helping herself to trout on cooked bread and tore it open instead of using a letter knife. She absorbed every letter that he wrote, every word that he spent the time to write to her. When she got to the end of the letter she felt her heart break in two.

She felt her fish rise in her stomach and she fled from the room, the letter gripped tightly in her hand as she emptied the contents of her stomach out of the window and onto the grass below. Before somebody could go to her she ran away, tears stinging her eyes as she raced through the hallways and to her chambers, pushing past the guards and diving onto her bed, sobbing onto her pillow.

_Selene is with child._

_In five moons we are going to have a babe._

The heart made no sound when it broke, but parchment did when it was torn up. She shred it into tiny pieces and scattered it across the room, the wind taking small scraps out into the outside world: a place she never wanted to face again. How could she face other people when the love of her life was going to have a babe with another woman?

***

_Tyran,_

_It’s my turn to send congratulations now. Mother and father were delighted when they found out but I’m pleased you told me first. Did you get my last letter? I couldn’t stand it if it fell into the wrong hands..._

_I think Alayne’s upset because she hasn’t got a child yet and we both have. She’s been married to Lucian for nearly two years and she hasn’t even shown any signs of being close to bearing a babe. I worry for her mental health as I worry for the King’s physical. I think the King will die soon, Tyran. I know he is my best friend but he sleeps all the time and never eats. Alayne doesn’t think he will live to see the end of winter and I don’t think he will either._

_Grace sends her love. Ned and Lyanna are getting big and Qyburn says they’re very clever for seven month old babes. Lyanna laughed the other day. It’s the best thing when your child does something for the first time. I can’t wait for you to feel for your child what I do for mine._

_Anyway, as I kept your secret about Selene being with child until five months, will you keep mine? Grace is two months with our new child, but you can’t tell anyone in case something happens, which I pray to the Gods it won’t. Grace and I were planning to visit Casterly Rock to meet your child, but we can’t; I don’t want Grace to travel while with child. I know mother did it and the three of us were healthy, but with the plague I won’t risk it._

_I don’t know when I’ll see you again because Grace will have the babe before I turn sixteen and I want to go straight to Winterfell like you did with Casterly Rock, but only this time I will tell people before I go._

_Ew lliw kcatta ta eht s’neeuQ noitanoroc. ouY og ot s’gniK gnidnaL dna teg enyalA dna emoc htron dna ew lliw kcatta rehtegot dna teg ruo ecitsuj._

_Robb Lannister_  
I do not have fancy titles like you.  
?ginK erutuF

***

Sansa’s mother and father had conceived Robb on the eve of their wedding, and Sansa and Tyrion conceived Tyran after one night of sharing each other’s bed. Tyran and Selene had been married five moons and they were having their first child, Robb and Grace had made _two_ after knowing each other for less than an hour, and was expecting their other after Robb confided in her that they only tried once because the pain hurt Grace too much. If that was the case, then where was Alayne’s child?

“I am sorry,” Lucian croaked. “I can’t give you any children.”

They hadn’t shared a bed in three weeks; Lucian was too tired and Alayne too fed up with trying for the child they will never have.

“When you get better we can try again.”

“I’m not going to get better. Maester Qyburn says my lungs are broken and when I start coughing blood I’m going to die.”

She wiped his brow with a wet cloth. Alayne would not allow anyone else to touch her husband so tenderly. “You haven’t started coughing blood yet, you could still have a good few years left in you yet.”

“ _Good._ I cannot ride a horse and I can’t walk up the steps to my own throne without feeling that I’m on fire. I’m sweaty and I can’t make it to my chamber pot and I hate it. Alayne I would rather die.”

She hushed him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why do you care? You said so yourself: you hate me.”

She hated him because he could not give her any children, not because he was weak as she had told him. The Queen patted his temple and kissed his cheek. “I don’t hate you.”

“But you’ll never love me.”

“I don’t have to love you. I like you and you’re one of my closest friends and companions. Do you still love me?”

“I’ve always loved you.” Alayne sat up and wringed the cloth out into the basin. “No more, please.”

Alayne nodded. “Lucian... Has your sister come to visit you?”

“No, but Grandmother comes every day when you sit the throne. She says you do a wonderful job. She said something else as well.” Alayne raised her eyebrows. “She thinks you should take another man to bed so you can have a child – not because you want one, but so I have an heir and so Alyse can’t be Queen.”

“I would never do that; you’re my husband. I couldn’t take another men.”

“That’s what I said,” Lucian sighed. “I know you too well.”

She chuckled. “I think you do.”

“And I love you.”

Queen Alayne kissed him on his pale, thin lips. “I know you do which is why I can’t take another man to my bed. You’d hate me for it. I know you would.”

“Grandmother also thinks you love me but you’re too afraid to say it.”

“Does she?” He nodded. “She’s a clever lady. Perhaps she’s right.”

“Is she?”

Alayne didn’t know for herself; she didn’t know what love was. She had never been surrounded with love. Her parent’s marriage was not love, but built on companionship and grief. Grace and Robb were in love: they would hold each other and kiss each other and miss one another when they were not around. Alayne didn’t miss Lucian when he wasn’t with her; sometimes she was glad to have a break from looking after him, and she hated herself to think that because it was not his fault he couldn’t breathe and collapsed frequently and Alayne didn’t want her husband to die.

 


	33. Analytical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another heir is born, Tyrion prays for his family while Cersei learns some about hers and Tyran fears for his wife

Moons after the twins Eddard and Lyanna were born, another babe was born to inherit their father's land. The babe was born early, screaming and covered in his weary mother's blood. Tyran did not remain by Selene's side as she laboured with his child for half a day, but entered the room minutes before a son was pulled from hwe. Tyran Lannister had a son, and though he had many months to comprehend that fact while he watched Selene's belly swell by every passing month, he still found it surreal that he had a child. He was six-and-ten and his wife even younger than him. 

Tyran demanded to hold his son first; he was  _his_ heir, Selene should be honoured to give him a son but she sat by idly as midwives wiped sweat off her brow as her husband held the babe she had carried in her womb for eight moons first. 

“Don't hold him like that."

 _She cannot tell me what to do; she is my wife._ But recently, his wife had grown agitated with the lack of love he felt for her. She cried a lot and never slept, shook fiercely and was constantly nauseas, but everybody said it was due to her being with babe. Tyran of course did not care much for his wife, only that she gave him plenty of sons to carry on the Lannister name and pure bloodline.

“You can hold him,” Tyran agreed. “But only for a little while.”

Tyran passed his son onto Selene who smiled – a rare sight nowadays – as he was put in her arms. She held their son and he stopped moving and shut his eyes. Tyran watched his chest rise and fall.

“He’s cold,” Selene noted.

“Put him in some clothes.”

Instead she wrapped the swaddling round him tighter and kissed his little chest. “You can have him back now.”

“I want to name him Tywin,” Tyran declared as his first son was handed back to him.

She shrugged. “If you want.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“I don’t mind.”

Robb had written to him with the advice not to call their son Tywin, reminding him of what they planned to do. “But I like Caster as well. Do you like Caster?” She shrugged. “Shall we name him Caster?”

“If you want to do it,” she said coolly, “that’s what you always do.”

He frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m tired,” she snapped. She lay on her side so that her back faced her husband and son. “Call him Tywin or call him Caster. I don’t care.”

“I’ll name him Caster then,” Tyran chose.

"Caster of Casterly Rock," Selene yawned. "It will make for easy ballads."

***

_Robb,_

_I fear there is something the matter with my wife. I have told you that we do not care for each other, that we both pretended to during our first few months of marriage, but after Selene carried the baby for a few months we ignored each other and she chose to spend her nights in a separate chamber. I did not mind until she had the baby._

_She has not held him once since the first time. She does not put him to her breast, never feeds him and leaves the Wet Nurse to do everything. Selene has never once said his name and she’s miserable. I fear something is wrong but the Maester’s say it is common for a new mother to have such feelings, but she birthed Caster a fortnight ago and nothing has changed. She is bedridden and not because of the birth. I think she hates Caster._

_fI ti ecitsuj taht uoy trna rof eht skratS neht kees ti. I tnaw ecitsuj morf eht slleryT. ekaM erus rehtom dna rehtaf era ta llefretniW htiw ouy. I lliw ekat enyalA htron._

_Tyran Lannister_  
Lord of Casterly Rock  
Warden of the West

***

Robb threw his letter into the fire as his brother had always instructed him to do. Grace frowned at him as she held Ned and Lyanna to her swollen breasts, both of them balancing against her swollen belly where their third child dwelled.

“Why do you always throw your brother’s letters in the fire?”

“I throw every letter in the fire,” he told her. “Grace, when you gave birth to Ned and Lyanna – and please be honest – did you ever hate them?”

She laughed. “I love our children. I always have and I always will. What’s happened?”

“Selene has not held Caster yet, not since he was pulled from her. Tyran says she hasn’t fed him or looked at him and she just stays in bed. Tyran thinks she hates Caster.”

“How can a mother hate her child?” Robb shrugged. “Have you told your mother?”

“How could I have done when I only just got the letter?”

“Tell her,” Grace advised. “But don’t tell your sister.”

“Why?”

“She’s been married almost two years and she hasn’t had a babe. How angry do you imagine she would be when she discovers that Selene has a perfectly healthy baby boy who she doesn’t feed and who Tyran thinks she hates. I can tell you she’d be devastated. You know how excited she was to give Lucian a child.”

Grace was very clever for a girl who had been raised in an inn her entire life. She had not been able to read before she wed Tyran, but Tyrion had taught her how to with patience because he did not think it suitable for the Lady of Winterfell to be unable to read. Robb had taught Grace how to write and now she could do it almost as well as they.

“I’ll tell mother. Would you write to Tyran and tell him you felt a similar way?”

“You mean lie to him?”

“I don’t want to worry him. He doesn’t love Selene but I know that he’s a caring person who’s concerned for her wellbeing. We ride to Winterfell in three months. Our baby is due in two. I don’t want to be away from him if something happens. Please Grace, just do it.”

“If something happens because of this lie, because Tyran thinks it is normal and sees worse things happen to Selene because of what I told him, I will hate myself forever.”

“I’ll hate myself too for making you lie, but Tyran has always been dramatic. Nothing bad will happen Grace.”

***

_I pray to the father that Robb and Tyran guide their son’s down the right path, that Tyran will be a loving and kind father and very much unlike my father. I pray to the mother that Grace has a healthy labour, and that Tyran’s wife is healthy and they love their children as much as I love mine. I ask the warrior to give Caster and Ned courage, and I pray to the maiden that Lyanna always stays blissfully innocent. I pray to the warrior to give all three of them strength, and Grace strength to struggle through with her birth. The crone I ask you to bless them with wisdom._

Tyrion would not pray to the stranger; he did not want anything from him. The dwarf slowly rose to his feet, looking at the face of the mother and thinking of his own who had died in childbed, and of Sansa and Grace and his eldest son’s wife whom he did not know.

“What do you pray for?” A voice startled him.

It was his sister, stood between the stranger and the maiden. _How very ironic,_ Tyrion thought to himself as he watched his sister glide towards him as if she still possessed the beauty she once had as a younger woman, but now she was plump and drunk and sloppy. Today she was not drunk and from a distance you could almost consider Cersei Lannister beautiful.

“I pray for my children and my grandchildren. What do you pray for?”

“I pray that Lucian makes a better recovery, or if not that then the stranger takes him quickly and painlessly. What do you pray for?”

“That my Grandchildren grow strong and wise and remain innocent and that Grace’s labour will be quick and painless. I did not think to pray for the King.”

“Prayers cannot save him,” Cersei reasoned. “He will not live to see five-and-ten, but I pray your daughter will, that she will live to see twenty and fifty and one day have Grandchildren of her own. But not the King’s.” _But not the King’s._ “Do you know what today is, Tyrion?”

“Joff died two years ago.”

She confirmed that he did. “Lucian reigns for two years this moon but he will not reign another."

“He’s a good boy.”

“Joff was,” Cersei said, “he always was. The last words he said to me was that he wished he had been kinder to Lucian and stricter with his daughter’s. He never wanted Alyse to be Queen, he always wanted Lucian to be King. But Joff was clever, he knew Lucian would never give Alayne children because he wasn’t strong enough and that one day Alyse would be Queen. Your son could have been King if we wed Alyse to Tyran.”

“They would have been much happier than they are currently.”

“But we never get to choose who we marry or who we love, do we?”

Tyrion frowned. “Did Jaime come and see you when Tommen died? He was my brother.”

“He came to see me but he left as quickly as he came.” _I see how it is, why you wouldn’t tell our own beloved father that Jaime did return to King’s Landing: because he fucked you beneath your son’s corpse._ “I hope your Grandson is stronger than mine. No person should ever have to live to see their child or Grandchild die. I would not wish that on you.”

“And here was me believing that you hate me.”

“You killed our mother.”

“Honestly Cersei, it had not been my intention.”

“But you tried to save my Joff. Your wife ran after the murderer even if she didn’t have to. Sansa hated Joff because he killed her father, I admit it was a bad move. You always looked after Tommen and Myrcella though before they left, and Alyse and Alysanne and Lucian. I don’t know why you would but you did.”

“Why should I blame the child because of their mother?”

She gave him a small smile. “Your son will do well to the House. Alyse will ruin hers.”

“The Baratheon’s were always threats: Robert, Stannis, Renly, _Alyse.”_

“It is not nice to consider your own blood a threat.”

“My children would never rise against the crown as the Baratheon’s and Stark’s and Greyjoy’s and Targaryen’s did.”

Cersei let out a low laugh. “Really? Perhaps you do not know them as well as you think.”

“And you claim to know my son’s better than I?”

“Perhaps I just _read_ them better than you. You see something that looks amiss but ignore it and blame the person, but perhaps if you look deeper, you will find the true meaning.”

“Did father teach you that?”

“No,” said Cersei, “I learned it.”

“From who?”

“Tyran and Robb.”

***

Tyran failed to understand how Selene’s mind worked. She had suffered with Caster for eight moons, and he had been born healthy but small, happy and content and she could not stand to look or hold him, lacked interest in anything or anyone, slept in the day but lay awake all night, never uttering a word or touching her food. Despite feeling no attraction to his wife, Tyran worried about her. She was still a child.

“Our Aunt was the same,” said Septimus, “she wouldn’t touch our cousin Marty for weeks, but when she heard him cry she ran to his crib and held him.”

“But Caster has cried and Selene hasn’t been to him.”

“She’s just tired, Ty," Septimus reasoned. “Where’s the crossbow?”

“Hanging by the horse,” Tyran replied. They were going hunting for a few days. Caster was staying at Casterly Rock with Selene – though that did not matter – and his wet nurse Jasmine whom he saw more of than his mother. “But Selene sleeps all day, she can’t be tired.”

“She’s always been a little bit... _Unhinged_ since our mother died.”

“Unhinged?” Tyran reiterated. “And you never thought to mention this to me?”

“You knew our mother died. You watched Lord Tywin die, how would you have coped if it happened when you were nine-years-old?” Princess Alysanne had watched Queen Margaery fall under ice and freeze to death. She had grown silent and solemn, but she was not unhinged as Septimus claimed his sister to be. “She blamed herself for our mother’s death, stopped eating, always cried and seldom left her room. Perhaps she feels bad because Caster was born early. I don’t know Ty... Just leave her alone.”

 _This is the whole point of going on this hunting trip: to give her some time to herself and allow her to bond with Caster._ The wet nurse Jasmine brought Caster to the Warden of the West as he had commanded to say farewell. Tyran took Caster into his arms and kissed his chubby cheek and gave her back to Jasmine.

“Look after him,” Tyran said, mounting his horse, “and Jasmine, if you could try and put him on Selene’s breast.”

“Of course my Lord,” said Jasmine.

“Thank you,” he kicked his heels into his stallion and began his trek down the Goldroad.

***

Sansa sat with Ned and Lyanna on her lap. She had never spent proper time alone with her Grandchildren; it was impossible to separate them from their mother or father; either one was always by their side or had one of the babes in their arms. Sansa loved her little Grandchildren: her dark haired babies, the Grandson who would grow to be as good of a leader as his namesake and the Granddaughter who would be as wild and skilful as hers. When Sansa looked at Lyanna she thought of Arya: the girl whom had murdered the King and had a son of her own named for their bastard brother Jon. Sansa missed Jon though they were never incredibly close. He could have written to her when he was on the wall, but he never did. Sansa could not help but blame Lord Tywin for that. He would have intercepted her letters and stopped them reaching her.

Robb always got a lot of letters now and Grace told Sansa that he always burned them. Sansa recognised the seal of House Manderly: a white merman on a blue-green field and the falcon from House Arryn. She asked her son what the letters were about and he informed her that it was a surprise and she would find out soon.

Sansa lifted Lyanna up underneath her arms, her little feet kicking Sansa’s legs. Lyanna wore a navy dress she had made for her and a pendant with a shell from the trident she had collected on her first ride from Winterfell to King’s Landing. She remembered that time so clearly: she had been so happy and did not need the wine Joffrey had given her to feel drunk. Then they had killed her wolf, murdered her household and taken her father’s head, forced her to wed Tyrion and killed her mother and brother. But Sansa would not have the little girl kicking around on her lap if all that tragedy had not happened. Her children and her Grandchildren were the only positive things to come out from this whole experience, but Sansa lacked the gratitude.

Tyrion entered their chambers and threw off his jerkin onto the floor.

“How was the council meeting?” Sansa asked.

“Awful, tiring, nonsense. How’s my favourite Granddaughter then?” Tyrion lifted Lyanna from Sansa’s arms and swung her around the room as she had watched him do so many times ago with their own children. “And where is Ned?”

“Grace is feeding him. What happened?”

“Alyse wants Lucian to abdicate,” Tyrion confessed. “Of course he can’t rule, but Alayne can. _She is not of Baratheon blood,_ she keeps reminding us. Alayne makes a better Queen through marriage than she ever could through birth. How was your day?”

“I wrote to Tyran after we broke our fast and I went riding with Alayne and Grace. Robb has been in his chambers writing letters all afternoon; I have seen dozens of ravens flying around the grounds.”

Tyrion flinched. “He needs to be careful what he writes.”

“Do you know what he writes?”

“No, but Cersei has yet she’s not admitting it. I find it hard to believe that anything Robb is doing is _dangerous_ , and I know better than to believe everything my sister tells me.”

“Robb wouldn’t; he has children now. He wouldn’t do anything to risk putting them in danger _surely_.”

“We’ve always said how hot-headed he is, how prone he is to fighting – when he was a little boy he attacked Joffrey, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Sansa mumbled. “I was terrified for weeks that Joffrey would punish him for what he did... He never tried to hurt Alayne again, though.”

“He only did what hundreds of other people were too frightened to do, which is exactly my point. What if he succeeds in what he’s trying to do? Robb is a fifteen-year-old boy with more courage and honour than any man I have ever met. Cersei once said to me that with what Robb lacks in looks he makes up for twice fold with courage and nobility.”

“Robb would have told us if he was doing anything,” Sansa reasoned. “Or you at least – or Alayne.”

“Maybe Alayne knows and she’s part of it.”

Sansa frowned. “Our children are not criminals, Tyrion. Maybe Robb’s writing to other houses to make... _unions_? He could be suggesting betrothals or offering to exchange sons to foster. He’s not planning to start a war,” but she seemed to be trying to convince herself of that more than her husband. “What would happen if he did?”

“We’d have to stop him before he could even try.”

But would Sansa want to?

***

_Tyran,_

_Mother and father worry about what we’re doing. We should tell them; they’re going to find out eventually. They’re part of it, after all. I won’t tell them until you agree too because you’re smarter and better at all this shit than me._

_Ned said his first word today, it was Mama. Lyanna will say hers too soon Qyburn thinks; twins always do things together. Ned learns quicker than Lya though; they say it’s because he was born first but I know Lya will grow to be as smart and strong as her brother. Grace thinks Lyanna will grow to be as wild and strong like her namesake and mother thinks she will become like Aunt Arya when she was younger than us. Our babe is due any day now and we grow more anxious by the day._

_Grace sent you a letter a few weeks ago about Selene, and mother says not to worry so I suppose that’s something. As long as Caster is healthy, that’s most important. Selene will get better; just make sure Caster stays hale and hearty._

_yehT worg suoicipsus._

_Robb Lannister_

_***_

Far south - much further south than where the new Lord of Casterly Rock resided with his babe and wife - sat a beautiful young woman with tanned skin and black hair with two children and a husband of her own. Her husband was a sharp man, arrogant now he was the Prince of Dorne rather than The Lord of some castle near the Water Gardens their children played, chasing each other around with their cousins and their staff. Arianne Martell watched the children with contentment. 

Her two brothers sat either side of her, all three Martell heirs were silent. It wasn't until Trystane - the bolder of the two brothers - spoke at last that the silence broke between brothers and sister. 

"Arianne we must not get involved."

"Silence Trystane," scolded the eldest brother Quentyn. "But Arianne... They killed Daenerys-"

"-Did Robb and Tyran Lannister drive a sword through Daenerys Targaryen's heart? No, that was the father of your wife who did that, Trystane. I know that you were fond of Myrcella, and you were fond of Daenerys, Quentyn, and if you wish to avenge the death of Dany-"

"-The Faceless men could not be trusted-"

"-They killed only one out of our requested-"

"-Which is why we do it ourselves. The youngest boy has twins, his wife is with another child. The eldest is Lord to Casterly Rock with a new son, both brother is fertile and fair. If we wed our children to theirs: my Valeriya for Eddard and their Lyanna for Lorenzo, the new boy Caster for your daughter, Quentyn-"

"-Leave our children out if this Arianne! You are almost as bad as father-"

"Bite your tongue or see it removed, Trystane! I shall not see our children harmed but I intend to see the Martell's rule more than Dorne. Joffrey is dead, his sickly son sits the throne with the Lannister boy's own sister as Queen. Lord Tywin is dead now so whom do we have to fear? It is down to us that Joffrey is dead, now is our time to attack!"

Again, silence passed throughout the siblings as an indignant Arianne rose from her chair and towered over the two brothers. "Are you with me or are you against me?"

Of course they were with her. They were fighting a war with the world, they could not fight a war between each other. So Quentyn rose and gazed longingly at his daughter who frolicked in the waters below with Arianne's children. "I shall have the horses saddles."

"Brother, we do not ride," both were confused. "Remember those boys are still Lannister's. Lannister's killed Elia and Lannister's killed Dany. I will not have the lives of the people that I love jeopardised by Lannister's once more." 

"So who shall stand for us?"

Arianne followed her brother's gaze across the pools. "My husband."


	34. Under the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern statistics haunt Robb when more children are born to him with complications, Tyrion confronts Robb on such topic while husband and wife come to blows.

Blessed were Grace and Robb when their next children were once more, twins. They were told it was miraculous for this to occur - very rarely found that two sets of twins were born into a family. It might have delighted the young parents if the babes were not born with difficulties. 

Grace and Robb were forced to make the decision if they would have their son’s finger cut off or their daughter’s left hand. They chose the finger and later, a quiet daughter was thrust into Grace’s arms with a trace of her brother’s finger still attached. It took longer for the son to be readied; they had to seal the wound and dress it.

“We can remove the finger from your daughter later,” Maester Qyburn announced. “And your son should be able to function properly without the hand. It was on his right hand. You can train him to use him left.”

The son without a finger was put into Robb’s arms. He was smaller than the other three had been with thick red hair, a small nose and shrivelled limbs. Robb looked at Maester Qyburn, then at his son.

“He’s a dwarf.”

Grace looked up from their daughter in astonishment. “Yes,” Maester Qyburn began. He was as old as Pycelle had been at his mother’s age, but he was a damn sight more intelligent and had more wits about it him than the withering old fool who had died in the act, fucking a whore. “I was going to mention that. Your son _is_ a dwarf, and if you don’t want him-”

“-I never said that,” said Robb indignantly though he placed the son on the bed beside wife and daughter. 

His new son and daughter shared his nameday. It meant that they could ride to Winterfell sooner. Robb was grateful for that. Their son wouldn't be on display in Winterfell, he wouldn't be the subject of gossip and stares as he would in the capitol. They would leave for the north when Tyran gave his approval which Robb now hoped would be very soon.

“Bring him to me,” Grace commanded.

“I don’t love him any less than her,” Robb claimed.

His father had once told him that for a while in his life he wished his father had drowned him instead of let him live as the monster of Lannister. He had never wished for any child to be born with the same infliction as him, and when Lord Tyrion was very drunk, he had once said that a quick death was merciful than letting a child live as a dwarf and a shame to their family. Robb didn't know why this drunken conversation came to his mind as he stared at the frail child on the soft white linen sheets, but it did. 

"Shall we name him Brandon then?" Grace asked softly. "As you wanted to."

"No," he decided. "Not Brandon."

“There has nearly always been a Brandon born to your family."

 _Not dwarves though._ "I shall break the tradition."

"That's not like you. Robb-"

“-I would like to call our son William. Serena for our daughter still."

Grace nodded uncertainly, not through choice of name for her daughter but through the son. 

***

Tyrion did not think that Robb and Grace would be blessed with twins once more, and a boy and a girl yet again. Robb had been by Grace’s side without persuasion, Tyrion, Sansa and Alayne waited in their quarters with Ned and Lyanna just past one-years-old. They could hear Grace’s screams – an unnerving sound, and Tyrion smiled at Alayne.

“I suppose you’re pleased you don’t have to do this?”

She simply glared at him and turned from her father. Perhaps it was an ill timed joke – his wife certainly thought so, clearly so did his daughter.

Several hours passed until Robb came to them in the quarters. Alayne had drifted off to sleep by the fire while Ned and Lyanna had been put in their cribs in their chambers, watched by Septa Clarence. It was late into the night, early onto the following morning.

“Twins!” Robb breathed exasperated. “A boy and a girl: William and Serena. But William... He has nine fingers; William and Serena were born attached and William’s like you: father; he’s a dwarf.”

Tyrion could not help but take partial blame. William would not have been cursed with the infliction if Tyrion had not been so many, many years ago. His disability had been passed onto his Grandson: a little boy who would struggle with one less finger as it was, let alone being a dwarf. When Ned and Lyanna were born Tyrion was filled with joy. When William and Serena were born, all Tyrion felt was guilt and sorrow.

He watched Robb as they met the two new additions to the family. Not once did he hold his son. _He did not give him a traditional Northern name, nor did he give one to Serena._ Tyrion hoped that Robb would not neglect his dwarf son as Lord Tywin had done with his, but Robb would never love his imperfection as much as he did with little Ned. Tyrion had never felt more disappointment towards his son.

Tyrion confronted his son about it afterwards, taking Robb out the room, leaving Alayne, Grace and Sansa with the babes. The father led his son through the corridors and out of their quarters. He did not want Grace or Sansa hearing what they would say.

“Did you know your son was a dwarf when you made the choice to take his finger?” Tyrion asked.

“No,” Robb confessed. “It was better than allowing Serena to lose her hand. Why do you ask?”

“Some parents can feel... _dislike_ to children who are not like other children-”

“-Just because your father had problems with his dwarf son does not mean I will have problems with mine,” Robb flared. "Do I want a dwarf for a son? It is not ideal, but he is still my son."

"You told me you would name him Brandon."

Robb shuffled his feet and picked at his fingers. Tyrion stopped to a halt. Robb followed suit. His son could not bring himself to look at his father and Tyrion knew the answer before Robb could say it.

“I love William, but Brandon is a true and strong name – father don’t look at me like that!”

“If you start thinking like that now, what will happen in years to come? Will you be _ashamed_ of William?”

“Of course not,” Robb snapped.

“So you keep saying but there is more to love than speaking it. You can say it well and good, but to mean it is another matter entirely. Robb, if I find out that once you’ve gone to Winterfell in a few weeks and you have neglected William, I will ride north and take him from you. I will not have another child suffer what I did.”

“I will _not_! He is my son! He is no different than Ned or any other children I might have. I didn’t give him a northern name, is that why you’re accusing me of not loving my son? Serena’s name is Lysene – does that mean I love _her_ any less than Lyanna? What would you have me do: name all my children over my dead relatives? Shall I change Serena’s name to Catelyn or Lyarra or Arya? Or William’s to Benjen or Jon or Brandon? They are _my_ children and I can name them what I want to.”

“Don’t be rash,” Tyrion warned. “You’ll need patience when it comes to raising a dwarf.”

Robb gave him a grim smile. “Then you’ll be ever so delighted to know that Grace and I won’t be leaving King’s Landing soon. We shall wait until after Lucian dies; he’s my best friend and brother now and I want to be there to mourn for him. I won’t leave until he’s left us.”

One man could only be honourable to a point, and what if Robb had exceeded his? He could claim to love his son, but Tyrion knew first-hand what it was like to live life with a father who despised you, loved and doted on his other children but treated another one differently. Jaime was likely dead, Cersei was Queen Regent to a sickly King and had three children born of incest. The least loved child was the most successful.

***

_Tyran,_

_Next time I see you I will kill you for making me stay in King’s Landing for a day longer than I need to. For my whole life I’ve said I’m leaving the capitol the day I turn sixteen. It’s been a week. I still have not left and the excuse that I don’t want to leave until the King dies is getting old and rather rude to Lucian._

_Grace had our babies a week ago: twins again, on my name day and the day that winter has ended. I thought they would be a good omen, but they were born attached and our son a dwarf. How am I meant to cope with having a child as a dwarf? Grandfather hated our father, what if I end up like that? When I look at William – he’s our son – I can’t help but think that he could have killed Grace when he entered the world, but she loves him so and everyone admires him, but they cast aside Serena – our daughter – because they want William to know that he’s loved._

Tyran stopped reading and put down his cup of water. He sat by his wife’s bed. He had Caster on his lap and he kept reaching for the letter. The Lord of Casterly Rock gave it to his son whom studied it contently. Caster could not read. There was no worry in him finding out the contents of the letter and revealing it to the rest of the realm. He would read the rest of the letter later.

“Grace and Robb had twins again, Selene,” Tyran whispered to his wife who sat motionless on the chair beside a window, _at least she’s out of bed._ “A little boy named William and a girl called Serena. We can get them a present if you want. Would you like to choose one?”

“I don’t mind,” she whispered.

She was always like this. She never spoke a word. Never looked at their son when he was present. Never asked to hold him. Selene had perhaps held Caster half a dozen times in the eight months that he had been born: one when he was born and the other times Tyran had not been present when it happened, it had always been with her brother’s who would tell him and Tyran would go straight to his wife smiling, hoping that she would be better but she would lie awake in bed, staring up at the canopy, silent and still.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go to King’s Landing with me soon,” Tyran began. “You can meet my parents and my brother and sister and your niece and nephew.”

“I have nieces and nephews,” Selene breathed.

“Would you like more sons and daughters?”

Tyran loved Caster more than he had ever loved another human being. He did not think he would love his son as much as he did, but with Selene not all there, he had to give Caster the love twice fold that his mother would not give him. The other day Caster had called his Wet Nurse Jasmine his Mama. Tyran had been furious – not at Caster and not at Jasmine, in fact he offered Jasmine to become Caster’s Septa despite not being part of the faith, and she agreed because she had two children of her own of Caster’s age who needed constant care. He was angry at Selene who did not love her son and her son did not know who she was.

“No,” she replied solemnly. “I never want to share my bed with you again.”

“You’re always like this,” Tyran snapped. “Cast me aside, fine. But what has Caster ever done to you? He’s a _babe_.”

“I don’t want to be married to you anymore,” Selene Lannister confessed.

“You can become a Septa or a Silent Sister,” Tyran whispered. “If we have the permission from the High Faith. But you would never see Caster again.”

“I don’t care,” she replied. “All he is _your_ heir. As far as I know he is not mine.”

“You brought him into the world. How can he not be yours?”

“I don’t love him. The Gods gave me him to give to you. If it was born a girl then she would be mine, but the Gods put a son in me for it to be your heir and nothing else.”

Tyran stood up, holding Caster close to his body. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps now you’ll listen to me,” she replied and continued to look out the window. “The words from a senile person are sometimes more truthful than words from the sane.”

“You’re sick,” Tyran spat.

“I thought I was insane.”

“You’re both.”

“They say murdering the senseless is a kinder fate than living.”

“Perhaps you should die,” Tyran retorted coldly.

She closed her eyes. “Perhaps I will.”

***

Alayne and Lucian sat court no longer. The King was on the brink of death, he was so close that the boy King could almost shake hands with it, and his wife would never leave his side. She denied ever loving him, but what wife, if not a loving one, would sit by their husband’s side, wipe the drool from their face and clean their arse when they shit? It fell to Alyse to sit at court. Usually she enjoyed playing the Queen, getting practice for when her little brother would die and the crown would be rested upon her head as it rightfully should have from the beginning. Sometimes Alyse allowed Mace Tyrell to taste the glory of being King, and that day was one of those days.

Alyse had no duties to take care of. She woke late and broke her fast lightly on some honey and bread. She had her handmaidens bathe and dress her and she went for a walk in the gardens. She took a book with her; she didn’t intend on going back to the castle when she could feel the sun on her bare skin. The Princess perched on the edge of a stone wall overlooking Blackwater Bay, watching the ships sail by and the little children play on the sands. _That had once been Alysanne,_ Alyse reflected mournfully. She missed her little sister, she should not have left her alone in the world so early.

The Princess opened her book and began to read, but it seemed to cyclical for her. She could not concentrate, her eyes kept returning to the first sentence instead of progressing onto the next. She had probably read the first line of the book more than a dozen times. She could not focus on the book, not could she on Blackwater Bay when she closed the volume and stared out over the sea. What she could focus on were her Grandmother’s eyes, raking down at her from the balcony. Alyse’s head snapped up, staring the Queen Regent into the face. When the younger Princess caught sight of her, she made her way down the steps towards the Princess. She came alone and she came silent.

“Isn’t it too cold to sit out here on your own and without a cloak?” Her Grandmother mused. “Your mother never wore much to cover herself when she was your age-”

“-Don’t speak about my mother.”

Lady Cersei raised her eyebrows. Once Alyse could remember her Grandmother being the most beautiful woman she had ever set her eyes on, but now she could never imagine thinking that. The woman who stood before it had grown fat in age, her hair thinning, her body widening and her face blotchy and red.

“Perhaps we should talk about your father then,” Cersei continued.

“Do not speak about my mother _or_ father.”

Her Grandmother gave her a mock curtsy. “What do you long for in this world most, Alyse?”

“To be Queen.”

“You should never give someone an honest answer,” Cersei taught. “Take my arm and walk the gardens with me, it seems that I have a lot to teach you.”

Alyse did as the Queen Regent commanded and linked her arm with the older lady. She left her book on the stone wall. It wasn’t a particularly interesting book, but she had chosen to read it because Tyrion had given it to her on the nameday after her mother died. He would not find it lying on the wall; he would be too busy with his new Grandchildren as everyone else in the capitol was. The dwarf born to the Lord of Winterfell was a fascination while Alyse merely saw him as a twisted little monster. None of their children would ever be particularly good looking, Alyse mused, with their parents being plain and their father not as beautiful as his brother Tyran.

The thought of him made Alyse’s breakfast tumble around in her gut. She tried not to think about it, but it was impossible not to. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face. Any time she saw someone with golden hair she thought it was her Tyran. He was hers, after all: he had said so himself.

“I already know a lot; father taught me how to be Queen.”

“But did he teach you how to be a woman?” Alyse shook her head. “There’s a lot to it, you haven’t bled yet, have you?”

“I will soon,” Alyse snapped.

“You are ten-and-seven, my sweet, it is likely that you will never be able to produce the crown heirs, but you can still use that useless hole between your legs to your advantage. Men would pay good gold and land to get in between your legs for just a few minutes: such a beautiful and innocent thing like yourself.”

Alyse laughed. “I’m not innocent.”

“Tyran has proved that.”

 _How did she know that_? It seemed that almost everybody did. They should have been more careful. Alyse had murdered Helena Tyrell so that he would be with her and marry her. If she hadn’t lied to him about not flowering... They might be man and wife. There was no rule against not being able to conceive when you haven’t flowered. Alyse could defy the odds and give Tyran beautiful children that would one day be Kings and maybe Queens. _But he already has a son and a wife. He won’t want me._ Robb had told her that Tyran had informed him that he and his new wife were very much in love, and Alyse had never been more devastated in her life. Somehow, she needed him back to her.

“I’m going to be Queen. I can do what I want.”

“But until then, _I_ am Queen. What will you do when you become Queen? What will be your first rule.”

“Girls can inherit the throne if they are born before the boy.”

“That is what they do in Dorne. It would certainly give women more power. When you enforce that I would be the Lady of Casterly Rock, leaving your poor Tyran without a title and claim.”

“Then it shall only be royalty,” Alyse defended. “Tyran is the _true_ Lord of Casterly Rock; Lord Tywin named him his heir. Not you.”

“You still defend him, even after he left you?”

Of course she did. She would defend him until the day that she died. She was madly and hopelessly infatuated with him and there was _nothing_ that she or he or anybody else could do about it. Alyse would ride to Casterly Rock and murder that bitch Selene for taking what is hers as she had done years ago on the eve of his wedding.

“He didn’t leave me,” she withdrew her arm from her Grandmother. “And he did _not_ take my maidenhead. I should have your head for accusing me of this.”

“Of course not,” Cersei kissed both her cheeks.

 _Have your head. Strangled Helena Tyrell._ When she strangled Helena, Tyran was forced to remain in the capitol with her; he had nowhere else to go. What if she could do the opposite? What if Alyse could kill someone in the capitol to _return_ Tyran back to King’s Landing so they would be together again. But who would she kill?

She thought about Sansa, but she had always been kind to her and a mother figure after Queen Margaery died, and her death would numb Tyran and he would never take her to his bed. Tyran was not as close to his father as his little brother Robb was, but the loss of his father would be too heavy. His brother and sister maybe? _The death of a King should create a crowd,_ she remembered overhearing Lord Tywin say to Lucian. _He would be forced to return to King’s Landing if his King died and for her coronation._ She would do it, Alyse decided.

She would kill her brother.

***

Septimus had told her tales about this jump: how Ashara Dayne had jumped from a tower in Starfall called Palestone Sword and her body was never recovered. She gazed out the window of the tower of Casterly Rock: the highest that there was, gazed over the shores of the ocean and tried to listen to the sound of the waves, but the babe was crying.

He always cried – or it – whatever the wicked monster that she and her husband had made. It hurt when she laboured with him. She hoped she would die. She hoped the babe would die for hurting her. It was pulled from her, covered in blood and given to her husband before her. She had wanted to hold him, to see the monster she had created and promptly returned it to Tyran. Selene hated the creature she had created: given the man she hated most in the world an heir that he did not deserve. Their babe should have _died_.

For almost a year she wanted to do this: throw herself from the highest tower at Casterly Rock and end it all. She never left her chambers, only allowed her brothers to come in. _Never_ her perfect older sister, always her dumb big brothers with their wonky teeth and ugly children. Selene wished Caster would be ugly and no woman would ever touch him and he could never be cruel or insensitive like his father and call his wife by the name of his lover. She hated Tyran and she hated Caster, she would throw Caster out the window and into the sea and push Tyran in after – a fantasy she often had: it aroused her more than her husband.

She felt the wind bat her nightgown. The weather was warmer, men rode their horses more frequently and women giggled and gossiped outside her chamber window. She could hear them every day, talking about her. Some said she was disfigured whilst others claimed her to be already dead. _I will be dead soon – won’t that be a tale to talk about_? Death would be more content than living.

 _Marry him!_ Everybody told her. _Marry him! You’ll be rich! It is the best match anyone will give you._ Everybody had told her to do it and so Selene had built up the belief that she would be happy and love Tyran. She heard news of his cleverness and of his good looks, and when she saw him ride into the yard she had never felt happier. He was so beautiful with his long golden hair, piercing green eyes and face chiseled like a marble statue. She had fallen in love with the idea of him, but she hated the existence of him.

She could hear them ascending the steps of the tower. She gripped the stone. Listened to the footsteps pounding up the steps. He sounded frightened. _He should be._

“Selene,” came her repulsive husband’s whispers. “Selene get away from that window."

He looked so magnificent under the light of the full moon. He was every little girl’s fantasy: handsome and strong, but like every fairytale, he was too good to be true. He had once been Selene's knight in armour, come to save her from the mundane life she used to live so contently. Now here they were. Her father's best interest - his greatest ambition - to have his daughter wed the Warden of the West had gone so poorly. His Grandaon might be heir intended, but his daughter intended death. 

"You want this as much as I. You want me dead. We both wish to be free! You can be free from our marriage and I can be released from this world. I can be put out of misery and you can be with her. Your precious Princess."

“No! No Selene – I only want you.”

The little girl who loved the fairytales about the handsome Princes saving the day emerged, and she felt innocent and calm again. Her heart melted, her face forming a smile. “Really?”

The wind blew against his face. “Really. Selene, you’re my wife. I love you.”

“LIAR!” She yelled. “IT'S HER THAT YOU WANT, NOT ME."

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!” Thunder bellowed through the midnight sky and lightning illuminated their faces. It would rain soon: hard and heavy. The thunder was deafening but at least it blocked out the sound of Caster’s incessant cries and screams.

“I loved you once,” Selene admitted. She turned her face to look at him. “After our wedding and they took me to bed, I suffered through it because I wanted you to love me. Then you took my hands away from me and told me I was beautiful and I knew I was in love with you. I gave you a _son_ and on the night I told you, you took me in your arms, did what you did, trying not to hurt me and you called me _Alyse._ You whispered it right in my ear without noticing. Then you rolled off and fell asleep, leaving me sore and damp and never able to get her name out of my head. _Alyse.”_ He looked shocked. “YOU HAD TO DO THAT TO ME! WHAT HAD I EVER DONE TO YOU?”

“ _Calm down,_ ” he warned tentatively. “We can talk about this!”

The wind picked up its force. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks were louder than the child and the rain that began to beat against her, soaking her nightgown. _It is so beautiful_ , she mused, looking up at the stars, _I can die right here and right now and be happy._

“Don’t let your son be the same man as you,” Selene croaked. “Listen to the mad, Tyran: listen to the sound of the thunder and the rain and the waves that crash among the rocks. We are all one: one body, one soul, one heart. Our lives are all intertwined. The stars are so beautiful, they are just as beautiful as you.”

She floated against the stars as her body crashed down onto the rocks below, her body being swept around by the waves. As she fell, she was finally happy for she was released from the suffering and tragedy that the world provided her with. It was symbolic: that her corpse would crash against the rocks and her husband’s life would crash after her death.


	35. Cruel to be Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyse shows a kindness to her brother while Alayne's does the opposite.

They found her body, smashed and only parts of it, washed up on the shore of Lannisport three days after her death. If he wasn’t the Lord they may have arrested Tyran for pushing her. He had not pushed her, but it was because of him that she jumped and felt as guilty as if he had pushed her. His stupid love affair with Alyse had resulted in an innocent girl’s life being taken by herself. She was not to blame; the blame lay with Tyran.

The castle went into mourning but Tyran found it hard to grieve for her. Sometimes he thought she was selfish for leaving Caster, and that she was craven for not facing the truth. They could have resolved this differently. She did not have to die like this. He may not have loved her, but he would have done anything to keep her alive and to save her life.

He had lost the support of the cadet branch; her family thought that he had pushed her. Tyran did not care. He exiled them from the castle, forcing them to take refuge elsewhere. He might one day accept them back to Casterly Rock, but not now Selene’s corpse lay cold in the crypts. He could not bear to visit her body; it would be like returning to the scene of her death.

Tyran still had matters to attend to. The Warden of the West was writing to Princess Arianne of Dorne. _My wife might be dead but Robb cannot be trusted to write to Dorne._ His work would not perish like his wife. And he wrote late into the evening, interrupted only by the tapping at his solar door. 

“Enter,” Tyran commanded, resting his ink quill on the desk.

It was Jasmine with a conscious Caster in her arms. He seemed to know there was something wrong, but he could not know what or who the woman even was. Tyran smiled when he saw his son and extended his arms for Jasmine to place him into.

“I’m putting Ser Caster to sleep, my Lord,” Jasmine reported. “I thought you may want to say goodnight.”

Tyran looked out of the window. He had started writing his letters at noon and it was now dusk. He looked to the roaring fire and saw that it was filled with burned parchment from where he had attempted to word his letters as appropriate for the Princess of Dorne. It was difficult but it took his mind off his wife’s death. _Clearly not if you wasted twenty pieces of parchment and did not stop until dusk._

“Thank you,” Tyran sighed. “How has he been?”

“Quiet, my Lord.”

“Do you think I pushed her?”

Jasmine shook her head. “No my Lord.”

“This is why I like you Jasmine: you’re a good liar.”

The girl bit her lip. She was of a similar age to Tyran, with hair as black as the sky the night Selene had thrown herself from the window and eyes that shined like the gold that they mined on the rock. “I am not lying, my Lord; I do not believe you pushed her.”

“You’re probably the only one. It does sound suspicious though, doesn’t it?”

“Not really, my Lord.”

“I was with her when she died and we had little likeness for each other. Servants heard our arguments and we wished each other dead a few times. I never thought she would end her life though.”

“She was a sick woman, my Lord. I apologise for saying so.”

“It’s fine,” Tyran dismissed. “She was insane.”

“Would you like me to bring you supper, my Lord?”

He was not particularly hungry. “No - you can have it. I haven’t been able to stomach food since she died and it would seem a waste to leave it. How are your children?”

“Very well, my Lord, thank you. Rowan took her first steps yesterday.”

“How lovely,” Tyran smiled. “And your son... I’m sorry, I have forgotten his name.”

“Lucian.” Tyran laughed, and she smiled meekly. “My husband was at King’s Landing with your Lord Grandfather when I birthed him, and King Lucian had been so gracious towards him he wanted to do him the honour of naming our first son for him. Though I don’t know what the honour is in that, my Lord.”

“Neither do I,” Tyran agreed. “Who is your husband?”

“His name is Oliver, my Lord. He works in the mines.”

“And you are a Wet Nurse for my son; people can do worse than you.”

“We lived in Lannisport, my Lord, until you invited us to your home.”

Tyran sat back in his chair, running a hand through his golden fair hair. “The castle is big enough for four hundred men to sleep in. What is the point in having all the chambers empty? I will leave for King’s Landing when the King dies, would it be an impertinence to ask you to leave your husband and ride with my household to the capitol?”

“No, my Lord: I live to serve you.”

“That’s good to hear,” he planted a kiss on his son’s cheek and gave him back to Jasmine. “King Lucian is a good man. You chose the right King to name your son for.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

***

Alayne Lannister had wanted nothing more than to be more powerful than her brothers and not be the sister to the Wardens of the North and of the West. Being Queen had given her the power and now Robb and Tyran were the two older brothers to the Queen. Now Alayne Baratheon wanted nothing more than for her husband to be alive and well, to be cured of his sickly lungs that had cursed him for too many months and for him to be healthy again. She did not care for children any longer. Why pray for lives that do not exist rather than a life that is burning out like a candle?

She sat by his bedside every day. They would talk often and play games. Lucian longed to ride his horse again and sail his ship, but he was too exhausted to get out of bed let alone ride a horse and steer a ship. It was horrible to see him in so much pain, Lucian often told her that death would be better than the suffering, but she would not believe him. Death was not better than anything.

Sometime shocked Alayne one day. She was drinking iced milk with Lucian and telling him a funny tale when the guards announced that Princess Alyse was entering the chambers. She had not visited him since she arrived at King’s Landing, why did she want to now?

“Leave us,” Lucian told his wife. He took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll be fine.”

Alayne nodded when the Princess entered, garbed in a dark crimson gown and her hair pinned back out of her face as if it was in her way, that she had something important to do. She curtsied to her brother and good sister and Alayne said that she would leave them and did so, shutting the door as she left.

***

Princess Alyse had refused all of the King’s requests to visit him while he had been on his death bed, but on the anniversary of their mother’s death, she broke her fast lightly with her Grandmother and was escorted to her brother’s bedchambers.

The smell of sweet, sickly flowers invaded her nostrils, but it was better than the after smell of sick and shit. Politely, she did not wince at the smell but approached it: lying awake on its bed with his head propped up against pillows. The King was sweating profoundly, his face was red and blotchy and snot hung from his nose. His eyes were as red as the dress Alyse wore: a long and thin crimson gown with golden roses which swept the floor when she walked. _One day I will wear the crown that sits on his head and the throne his wife sits in._

“Alyse,” he croaked. “Sister.”

Alyse had not seen her brother in weeks and she had never seen anybody as close to death as the King. His cheekbones were clearly visible, he was gaunt and his skin was a ghastly yellow like parchment paper. He could not stop shaking either, and the bed rattled when he suffered his worse.

“Do you know what today is, Lucian?” He did not reply. “Mother died six years ago to this day. Do you remember the day she died? You were seven-years-old and I was ten. Father hit you for sobbing and it was the first day I sat court alone. It is rather poetic, don’t you think: that I got my first taste for power when my mother died?” _And I will get my final piece of power when you die._

“I’m pleased her death gave you happiness,” he remarked derisively.

“Did your wife teach you sarcasm?” Alyse smiled, sitting in the seat that Alayne had used. “She deserves better than you.”

The bottle of poison felt like a tumour on her thigh. It was a small vile of Sweetsleep that her fingers kept grooming. The bottle was cold against her bare leg, but she enjoyed the influence it had on her.

“Of course it didn’t. Do you miss her?”

“Yes,” Alyse admitted. “I miss father too – and Alysanne.”

“I miss Alysanne. I hated father.”

“You dare speak ill of our father! He was a good and just man and you are nothing more than a sickly little boy! Father hated you. He told me that every night. Mother hated you more though: she prayed to the Gods that they would replace you with darling Tomas. You are a monster! You killed our father!”

“What? I didn’t kill him! Father was poisoned!”

“At _your_ wedding feast!” She laughed. “If you hadn’t married that little whore then father would still be here and cruelly mocking your demise. But I would rather he be dead than able to see the last gift our mother gave to him: his heir coughing up blood and stinking of _shit_ with a wife that would rather fuck his squire than her King.”

“That’s not true!” Lucian yelled, but doubled over spluttering. “Alayne – l-likes – me! She promised – she – would – never-”

“She may like you but she will _never_ love you; you won’t be around long enough for her to fall in love with you! Father gave her to you when he could have had her because he wanted you to be a good King, but here you are, leaving me or your elderly Grandmother and Grandfather to sit court for you while you spend your day drinking sweet milk and licking honey off your young wife’s fingers!”

She grabbed the cup of honeyed milk from his bedside. _It was still full and would be sweet like the poison. He will never know._

“You like sitting court! You want to be Queen then go ahead – I’ll abdicate!”

Her hand slid down her gown and she pushed her hand through the seam she had cut with her knife that morning. Flesh met flesh and she took the small vial from the leather straps that kept it in place. She turned her back on her brother and popped open the cork on the vial.

“I would only be a true Queen when you die,” she said sadly, pouring the poison into his milk. “I’m sorry for shouting at you,” the Princess lied. “Will you drink with me?”

She handed the poison to him. _How fitting that he will die like his father._ She poured herself a cup of milk to look inconspicuous. There was little milk left. She would say someone had poisoned it to kill the King. If King Joffrey had died from poison and then King Lucian, they would assume it to be the same person and Alyse had been fucking Tyran when her father died. _Stop thinking about him, but you are doing this for him, remember? It is only natural that you should think about him._

“Let’s raise a cup to mother and Alysanne,” Alyse announced.

Lucian nodded and raised the cup to his mouth. “Gods bless their memories.”

Satisfaction filled her body when Lucian put the cup to his lips, parted them and drained the remaining mouthfuls of the wine. He placed it on the table and stared at his sister. It would take a few seconds for it to work, Alyse knew. _You’ve waited a lifetime for the crown, you can wait a few more seconds._

“Thank you,” Lucian croaked.

“You’re welcome; you must hate the taste of blood in your mouth.”

 _As I so much love the blood on my hands._ “No,” he disagreed. “For the poison "

“Excuse me?”

Lucian chuckled. “Alayne would never do it, and I can’t very well climb out of bed and go to Qyburn’s cupboards and poison myself without causing suspicion. I saw you pour the vial into my milk; the window showed you doing it. You’ve given me the sweet release of death that I need.” _So why aren’t you dead yet?_ “Will you promise me something? As the poison spreads through my veins that I so willingly drank, can we part on good terms?” _This is not how it is supposed to go_! But numbed with shock, Alyse nodded. “Promise that you will never hurt Alayne.”

Alyse had never intended to do so anyway. “Of course.”

“And promise me you’ll die shortly into your reign,” Lucian said. He drifted back into his pillow and closed his eyes. “Because you should not be Queen.”

***

Alayne visited her family as often as she could, which had not been often with Lucian’s ill state. When Alyse entered their chambers, she had left them alone and she realised that she had not left her chambers for three days: had bathed and ate and dressed by her husband, not wanting to leave his side. That meant she had neglected to see her niece and nephew as often as she had initially intended.

“You will have children of your own one day,” her Lady mother promised her. On Sansa’s lap sat William and on Alayne’s was his twin sister.

 _No I won't. Olenna Tyrell saw to that._ “I don’t care about that anymore. I was stupid for hating Lucian because he couldn’t give me any. It was a horrible thing for me to do. I used to pray to the Gods that they would give us a child – it didn’t have to be a son, just a babe we could hold in our arms and love. Now I pray to the Gods that Lucian will live and be strong and healthy and be a good King.”

Her mother smiled at her. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Do you love father?” Her mother said nothing. “Exactly.”

“You know the circumstances under which I married your father,” said the eldest of the two women. “I only asked if you love your husband.”

“And I only asked the same. Well do _you_?”

She saw her mother flinch. Of course her mother did not love her father. She may have tried once, or tried to love him for the sake of Tyran and Robb and herself, but his family had murdered hers. How could she love someone like that?

But Lucian did not behead Alayne’s father or brutally murder her mother and brother. There was a different reason that Alayne could not love the King, and even then she was not sure what it was. Perhaps she could love him one day. Perhaps she already did love him and just didn’t know it yet. She would very much like to return the love he felt for her, but she was unsure how.

And then the bells rang.

Bells rang for death. They rang for the birth of a new babe as they done for the royal children. They rang for marriages. There was nobody in the castle who was with child and there was nobody worthy enough for the bells to ring for to celebrate marriage. _Death._ It was a horrible encounter: a life ending permanently, never able to return to the living. The bells could ring for anyone. Why was Alayne so calm?

“Why are they ringing?” Her mother whispered. Despite the sound the bells made, it was clear what she was saying because Alayne knew the answer.

“Take Serena,” Alayne commanded, putting Serena on her mother’s lap. “I – I need to have luncheon with Lucian.”

“Alayne-”

“-Mother... I’ll be fine... Lucian will be fine. It’s probably just a joke! Just a joke!” She laughed on cue. “Just some children who thought it would be funny! Excuse me.”

In front of her mother, she was always the courteous young lady she had taught her to be. Despite the bells ringing and the possible death for _anyone_ in the castle, the hoisted up her skirts and headed for the door. She opened it and made her way through and closed it behind her. Shaking, she walked through the corridors of her family’s tower and descended the spiral staircase, clinging onto the cold stone walls to stop her from falling. She stumbled down the bottom four steps, the guard at the bottom barely catching her in time before she smacked her face on the floor. The Queen pushed away from him and began to run through the castle.

She made it to her quarters, pushed past the guards who tried to stop her and outran them all, screaming her husband’s name as she ran. She pushed past Maesters and Silent Sisters who had gathered to look at his corpse. Even with all these people around their bedchambers, Alayne could not comprehend that her husband had died and refused to believe it, fooling herself that she was only running to make sure that he had eaten or had been bathed.

Robb caught her round her waist, stopping her from entering her chambers. He swung her around and pushed her against the wall.

“You don’t want to see this, Alayne.”

But she did. She _needed_ to. Kicking her brother and battling against his strength, she pried herself free. Crashing into a Septa, Alayne clambered into their chambers and saw him, dropping to her knees and crawling her way to their bed.

“He – he’s asleep!” She cried. “He’s only sleeping!”

She must have sounded insane. His body was cold as a winter snow. Alayne grabbed her husband’s hand and felt the coldness: his fingers were like ice. She pressed his cold hand against her hot and flushed cheek and stared at him. He was such a handsome boy, or he was to Alayne. Five and ten years and he did not deserve to die so young. His eyes were shut and he had a smile on his face as if he was in fact asleep.

“GET OUT!” Alayne screamed. “GET OUT ALL OF YOU!”

There was a rush to leave the room with mutterings of condolences. With the King dead she was no longer Queen, but they still respected her and obeyed her as if she still was.

She began to weep, clutching the night robes that he was gowned in. Alayne didn’t care about the smell; she didn’t care about anything now. She knelt by the bed side, the sound of the bells ringing in her ears but it was drowned out by the sound of her cries.

Alayne grabbed Lucian and shook him, climbing onto the bed and straddling him.

“Don’t be dead. Please Lucian don’t be dead! Gods _help_ him! I’ll do anything! _Anything_! Take me instead, not him, please not him, anyone but him.”

She fell on his body. Her cheek resting against his temple, her tear rolled down his face and fell onto his neck. She watched it roll down as her own tears stung her eyes. She ran her fingers through his golden hair, traced her finger against his cheekbones and kissed his pale and cold lips.

She thought about the last time they had truly been happy together: before Lucian had fallen deadly ill and before Alayne grew to resent him. It must have been in their early days of marriage. She remembered it: there had been a masquerade ball in the Ballroom and they had danced all night to every song that was played, holding each other in their arms and kissing each other.

_“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” Lucian breathed in her ear. “I love you.”_

_“Lucian... Don’t-”_

_“-I don’t expect you to say it back... But could you ever love me?”_

Yes she could, she realised as she lay on her husband’s corpse, her head swirling, her stomach tumbling and plummeting and her throat sorer than it had been the first time she had drunk too much wine with her brothers.

“I love you now,” Alayne whispered. “It’s too late now but I love you.”

***

Robb wasted no time for it was the time to put his plan into action.

He returned to his quarters after the King had died and Alayne had dismissed anyone. Robb walked swiftly and silently as not to raise attention to himself, but as the best friend and good brother to the King it was hard for him not to be taken by the arm and be given his condolences. Robb bit his tongue through them all and raced back to his quarters. He sprinted up the corkscrew staircase and barged into his parent’s quarters.

“Get to your chambers and pack! We’re leaving. It’s time.”

His parents and Grace and his children were sat in silence on the loungers. Tyrion got up and looked at his son.

“Robb-”

“-I’ll explain everything later, but you need to pack! Put as much stuff in a trunk as possible, the servants are assembling the litter and saddling our horses as we speak! I’ve had this planned for months, but we have to leave now!”

“ _Robb_!” His father echoed, louder this time. “What is it time for?”

Robb gave him a smile and laughed. “The revolution.”

***

Revolution. _Cersei was right; they were plotting something._ His darling boys were planning to do _what_ exactly? Tyrion needed to know what was happening before he took his family anywhere on a horse and litter. He was surprised to see Grace gathering her children and taking them from the room, smiling at Robb as she left.

“I’ll explain everything when we’re out of King’s Landing! But we have to go now!”

“No!” Tyrion shouted. “You will tell us _now_!”

“I will tell you after we have left. We can’t waste any time. If they find out we’ve left then we’re screwed. I need to pack and get Alayne – father _trust_ me! You can’t stay in King’s Landing when this happens.”

“When what happens, Robb?” Sansa asked, getting off the seat. “Where are we going?”

“Winterfell – but _please_ mother, just once in your life believe that I am doing the right thing!”

“Robb you can get yourself killed.”

A smug grin spread across his youngest son’s face. If he had been doing this and if Tyran had agreed to it, if the dozens of letters being sent back and forth from his chambers were about the rebellion, then it was well structured. They had wanted to leave King’s Landing for a long time to go to Winterfell, perhaps if he trusted Robb and his intentions...

“We’ll pack,” Tyrion agreed. “But only if you tell us what is going to happen.”

Robb nodded. “I will.”

***

They had left her.

Her mother and brother and father had left her at King’s Landing as her husband’s body was still warm. They had left an hour after Lucian’s death and took all their men with them. The castle was eerily quiet without the men and her family. She could not believe that they had left her.

Alyse came to them when she too learned of the news that everyone had left. She entered the room angrily.

“Where have they gone?” Alayne said nothing. “ _Answer me you little whore._ ”

“I don’t know where they have gone, and even if I did, I would not tell you.”

“You should speak to me with more manners now, _Alayne._ Lucian is dead. You are not Queen anymore. _I am_.”

Alayne rolled over on the bed. Lucian still lay there as dead as he had been an hour ago. She searched Alyse’s face for any sign of grief, but there was only anger and satisfaction.

“Then take the crown off his head and crown yourself tonight. I don’t give a shit what you do anymore. Leave me alone.”

“Why did your family leave?”

Alayne shrugged. “Maybe they fancied a ride.”

“ _Don’t act coy with me_! Where have they gone?”

Alayne had not heard or seen Alyse cross the room for she did it as silently as a snake. Alyse grabbed a handful of the grieving widow’s auburn hair and dragged her out of bed, but in the shock she fell to her knees. The pain was horrifying but she did not react; the emotional pain was much worse than what Alyse was inflicting on her at the moment.

“Go after them then!”

“With what men?” Alyse cried. “The Lannister’s either went west with Tyran or wherever with Robb! I do not control the Tyrell army as my Grandfather repeatedly tells me and I have already sent my own men down the Rose road to find them.”

 _You idiot,_ Alayne thought, _he will go to Winterfell._ “Perhaps they’ve gone to Casterly Rock to see Tyran? Pay him a visit perhaps?”

Alyse released Alayne’s hair and stood back, crossing her arms. “You’ll do well to behave yourself now your husband is dead and you’re not a Queen anymore.”

“Will I?” Alayne hissed, pulling herself to her feet. “Will you kill me too?”

As when Alyse had crossed the room to drag Alayne out of bed, the latter did not see when the Princess or soon-to-be Queen withdrew her hand and smacked her across the face. Alayne stumbled back, falling back on the bed and onto Lucian’s body.

“Maybe I will kill you,” Alyse judged. “But it is a better fate than you deserve.”

“What have I ever done to make you hate me so much, Alyse?”

“You became Queen,” Alyse snarled. “And don’t I just _hate_ competition? I thought I had made that clear when I stopped your little friend Helena Tyrell from marrying Tyran – _yes_ , don’t look so shocked. I murdered that Tyrell bitch, but it is only your word against mine: an angry and jealous former Queen against the new Queen adored by all. Remember that if you try and have me accused for murdering her _or_ him. Yes I saw it in your eyes when you saw me, and I saw it in him as I watched him die. Do you want to know what he said to me when he died?” Alyse did not wait for Alayne to give an answer. “He told me one last dying confession before he passed: that you’d been fucking our father. Was that true?”

“You’re deluded, Alyse. You’re not fit to be Queen.”

Alyse screamed at her in a rage of anger, throwing the flagon that held Lucian’s honeyed milk at her. It narrowly missed Alayne but his Lucian on his head, knocking the golden crown off his curls and onto the floor beside Alayne’s feet.

“You want to be Queen so badly,” Alayne kicked the crown across the floor to Alyse. “Take your dead father and brother’s crown and you can have mine as well and shove it up your arse. You are no Queen of mine.”

***

“We’ve been planning if for months,” Robb announced on horseback to his mother and father. “For almost a year. Tyran and I have been sending letters backwards and forwards with secrets codes written backwards at the bottom. Hardly anyone can even read, let alone read backwards. Ever since Lucian fell ill – which is a lot longer than Alayne knew as the King confided in me, we planned what we would do after he died. We couldn’t let Alyse be Queen; she’s mental and would turn Westeros into the days of her father and King Aerys. We would have done it on my sixteenth name day if Joffrey was still alive; we wanted vengeance for the Stark’s: for Grandmother and Grandfather and Uncle Robb, Bran and Rickon and the men they slaughtered in the Red Wedding. We knew Cersei was intercepting our letters, so we’d send fake ones so that she learned our movement. She thinks we’re going to Dorne so they’ll send men down the Rose road. We should be safe as long as we ride fast and early.”

“Why couldn’t Alayne be here?” Sansa asked. “She’s my daughter.”

“Tyran will ride to Casterly Rock upon Alyse’s request to see her coronation and attend Lucian’s funeral. We need Alayne to stay at King’s Landing as our spy, and we knew that she would never leave Lucian’s body alone with his sister who would, if she could, cut it up and feed it to her enemies. Tyran will ride with all his men and join us in Winterfell. An army from the East will ride and join us there: Robert Arryn, his son and wife and Littlefinger. His wife recently had a daughter named Lysa who I have agreed to wed to William. Dorne will rise for us also; Princess Arianne’s heir will marry Lyanna and she will go to Dorne when she is six-and-ten, and her daughter will come north the same day and wed Ned.”

“You’re mental: sending your children off for allies. Are you planning to start a war?”

“ _Start_ a war? Mother, the war started when Joffrey took your father’s head, it only stopped for a little while until Tyran and I could-”

“-There has been peace in Westeros for ten years! Robb, this is dangerous.”

“Mother, do you realise how many men we will have fighting for us-”

“-Robb-”

“Ten thousand men from the north. Twenty thousand men apiece for the east and the west and fifty thousand from Dorne. If I am correct, that is eighty thousand men. We could take Westeros in a month when our forces meet in the Vale. Dorne want revenge for Daenerys Targaryen, Elia and Oberyn Martell and we can give them that.”

“They wanted my father, not Alyse.”

“They want justice and they will get it with us,” Robb sighed. “They will have the Tyrell army and the few Baratheon’s – no more than eighteen thousand men at their command. We outnumber them, all of Westeros but Highgarden rise for us. Garlan and Leonette are out of Winterfell and are riding south to warn Willas about our invasion. They need not die-”

“-They are our _friends_!”

“What are friends compared to justice? Mother, why won’t you support this war?”

“I will support this war when Alayne is returned safely to me. I was separated from my mother-”

“-And we will get Alayne back! I promise! Alyse wouldn’t kill Tyran’s little sister, mother; she loves him! This is why this plan is so good.”

Tyrion frowned. “But Tyran loves Alyse. If it comes to it, do you think that Tyran could put a sword through Alyse’s heart to kill her?”

“Probably not, but it won’t come to it father! If you find it so hard to believe that we can win, then go back to King’s Landing. I’m not stopping you. You can ride north with Tyran and Alayne in a few weeks and we’ll see you at Winterfell in a month. If not, you can take the ship with us and half our men and live at Winterfell while we wait to hear more news.”

“And what happens if you win? What happens if you successfully kill Alyse?”

“This is my favourite part,” Robb announced. “I become King.”

***

When Alyse sent the letter to Casterly Rock, ordering Tyran and his men to ride east to attend Lucian’s funeral and her coronation, he knew it was time.

It was the perfect excuse: a royal invitation from the Queen. He gave his Lords two days so send all their fighting men – the Gods knew that they would need them when the war started – to Casterly Rock and they rode on the third with Tyran leading the procession. On his right rode his Grandfather’s bastard Niece’s Grandson. It was the closest he had to family that he did not send to exile. His name was one year Tyran’s senior and his most loyal companion. In the west, Gerion was the closest to family Tyran had.

“So when we get to King’s Landing,” Gerion began. “What happens?”

“We attend the King’s funeral and Princess Alyse’s coronation as we have been summoned for,” Tyran reported. “And then afterwards we take my sister, all of our men and ride and sail north to meet my brother at Winterfell. By then the east and Dorne would have joined them and we’ll be ready to attack.”

He had told Gerion about the plans for war; it was the only way he could comprehend that it was finally happening. “Why don’t we just kill Princess Alyse when we get there and slaughter their men? It would save time.”

 _Because I don’t want to be the one to put my sword through Alyse._ “Because they’ll outnumber us. We have eighteen thousand men, they have the entirety of the south with them and warning from Willas Tyrell of our intentions. No. We’ll have to act innocent, declare my brother a traitor and leave and ride west, then once we get far enough away we go north and make our way to the sea and sail to Winterfell. We should have enough ships; Dorne are sending us them, as is my brother and the Arryn’s.”

“It’s risky,” said Gerion.

Gerion himself had three bastards: all young boys who were riding in litters with Tyran’s own son. The oldest was six and the youngest four months. Gerion did not strike as the sort of boy to have bastards, but did Tyran seem to be the sort of man that would fuck the future Queen?


	36. Abandonment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne is terrorised, Tyran returns to King's Landing for his sister but comes for the Queen while another host returns home. 
> 
> Trigger warning (apparently you're supposed to warn people now which is a good idea, so trigger warning for abuse/rape)

Alayne Baratheon had once been Queen, but now she was a prisoner in her own Kingdom. Her family had deserted King’s Landing and abandoned her in the Red Keep with a murderous future Queen, a wicked Queen Regent and politically unjust small council. There had been no burial service for her husband. Once day he had been in the sept and the following he was buried at the bottom of Visenya’s Hill and nobody would tell her where. She was constantly guarded, not allowed to leave the castle walls and had to receive permission to talk to people. Alyse and Cersei watched her constantly. She was never alone.

A guard would stand and watch her as she bathed and dressed, her handmaidens stripped from her and her companions at court sent away. The guard who would watch her was Ser Deryn: a leering man of age with her father who when she first asked to look away when she dressed, he pushed her head under the water for long and lengthy seconds and mocked her as she dressed. He was incredibly big and strong and stood as thick as a stone wall and tall as a horse.

“You look like a little girl. Do you call those tits? It’s little wonder your husband drank poison; you’re a boring little bitch, aren’t you?”

She bit her tongue and would not say anything; Alyse only needed one excuse to have her flogged in front of court and the entirety of King’s Landing and she would not give her that satisfaction. Sometimes she would be ordered to sit court and watch men who served her family loyally who had been left behind or caught tortured for information on the whereabouts.

“Where are they?” Alyse asked simply from the Iron Throne. “Robb and his men: where did they go?”

“I – I don’t know! I was only his stable boy! Please, your Grace! You must believe me!”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything! Ser Meryn, take this man’s fingers. Perhaps then he’ll remember what they told him.”

But they never asked Alayne. In the fortnight that Robb had been gone they never once took Alayne down to be questioned. She stayed in the stands at court with her four guards, looking down at the scene, feeling guilty because these men and women were being punished for her brother’s acts. She hated Robb for what he was unintentionally doing to these men, the hatred she felt for him leaving her was nothing compared to what these innocent lives suffered because of his acts.

She was questioned though, one day it was her time. It was not in front of the court, it came from Ser Deryn in her bedchambers.

Alayne was dressing for bed, fastening the silver buckles on her nightgown under the watch of Ser Deryn. She slowly took her hair out of the braid and lay her necklace on the side of the vanity desk. Alayne brushed out her auburn hair fifty times each side – anything to waste time before she would strip before the man. Then she got up and slowly crossed the room. Alayne stood before the mirror and took off the first layer of her dress, dropping it round her ankles then hanging it up in the wardrobe. She then removed the other layer, fumbling with the laces and ribbons and hung it inside the dress. When she turned around she collided with a great force which seized her and pushed her against the wardrobe.

“Let go of me,” Alayne quivered. “Please.”

He ripped off her small clothes and she modestly covered herself. It did not last long; Ser Deryn seized her wrists and put them above her head. He grabbed her with his powerful hands and smashed her body against the cold stone wall. She whimpered, biting back the tears as he pressed a hand against her lower back, his other hand forcefully restraining her hands. The giant of a man closed in on her, his mouth brushing against her ear.

“Where is your brother?”

“At Casterly Rock.”

He smacked her round the head with the hand that held her back, and he placed it on her bottom. He placed two of her fingers between the cheeks, stroking it gingerly as she shook, terrified of what he would do, but she knew what he would do. _He has waited for this moment._

“You’re such a pretty girl,” his fingers traced her spine, sending chills through her body. She bit her gums to stop her from wailing; he would only make it hurt more if she cried. “I’ve never been with a girl so young. You’re so young that everything stands up even after you took off that lovely gown,” he groped her breasts with both hands, pulling her against his chest. “ _Where is Robb Stark_?”

“I don’t know!” She faltered. “They left me!”

He squeezed her breasts harder, twisting her nipples with his forefingers, jolting her with an intolerable amount of pain. She felt her knees give way but the giant man was strong enough to keep her on her feet. She could feel the tears sting her eyes, and she put her head back to stop them from falling.

“I promise you I don’t know anything.”

“ _Liar_.”

He grabbed her by her hair and dragged her to her vanity desk. With one mighty swing of his fist, he knocked the contents of the desk onto the floor, smashing bottles of scented water and smashing the mirror into a million tiny pieces of glass. He pressed her against the desk, spreading her legs wide as he placed a hand between her thighs. Lucian had always been gentle when he touched her between her legs, but this man was not her husband: he was a monster who grabbed her, his fingers as thick as sausages as he wiggled his fingers over her cunt. She yelled out with pain, banging her fist down on the desk as he leaned over her.

“I won’t ask you again: _where is he_?”

“He went to Casterly Rock!” She lied. _Anything to stop him._

She heard him unlacing his breeches. _Help me,_ she thought, _Gods, if you’re real. Help me._ She felt his cock press up against her back side, he was hard and ready to stick it in her. She closed her legs tightly, but he laughed at her.

“I won’t be having that,” he placed his cock against the hole of her backside. “ _Where is your brother_?”

“Please!” She yelled. “Please I don’t know! Stop it! Stop it _please_! I’ll tell my Aunt Cersei! I’ll tell Alyse!”

Then he whispered in her ear, one of the most painful things she had heard throughout her stay at King’s Landing. Alyse had been one of her closest friends before King Joffrey died: they placed together and attended classes together and supped together.

“Who do you think it was that sent me?”

***

It would happen again.

Day after day, night after night, Ser Deryn would come in to interrogate her. 

The first times she screamed as she felt herself ripped apart by this monstrous man who would take her without an inkling of regret or doubt. He did what he did when ordered to by the Queen. It was always when the moon first rose. Alayne would dread that time, curled up on her bed in the covers, whimpering when the sky grew dark and the air cold and she was all alone on her hard bed until  _he_ came to her. After the fourth night she stopped screaming but she would still resist him. She was too numb. Too broken.

She was numb to the world, all she could feel was the pain that spread through her body. He must have raped her four times that night and that was not including the fingers that he inserted in her. His interrogation of her had lasted all the night and he left her in her chambers, curled up in bed with her knees tucked under her chin, too deadened to cry and shocked to scream or ask for help.

Nobody came to visit her. Not her Aunt Cersei, not even Alyse. Alayne wanted an explanation as to why she was having to endure this man. Sometimes she wished she could have the courage to throw herself from her chamber window. Then she thought of her mother and father and it stopped her from jumping.  _But I never stopped them from leaving._ She wanted to die, to leave all the pain and Ser Deryn and Alyse and the haunting memory of Lucian behind and start a better life. Anything was better than the life she was living: alone and abandoned.  _They all left me. Mother, father, Robb, Tyran..._ _I hate him,_ Alayne thought. _I hate Robb and mother and father for leaving me._ Alayne hoped that if Robb ever discovered what had happened he would feel remorse for leaving her. She hoped it would kill him.

***

Tyran and his host of men arrived at King’s Landing in less than a month from when they had received word that Robb had left King's Landing with mother and father, leaving poor newly widowed Alayne alone. With the Ocean road they were able to make the ride much faster than when Tyran had first made the trek with his Grandfather when he was a young boy. No snow covered the grounds, it was lighter longer and a lot warmer which enabled them to ride for extra hours and not make lengthy stops because of the poor weather.

Lord Tyran had not been to King’s Landing in too long when Ned and Lyanna were still in Grace’s belly. It had not changed but there was no sign of winter, fewer guards patrolled the walls and gates and the ever present Lannister lion banners had been replaced with the yellow and black Baratheon stags. Tyran expected his family to be there to greet him: his mother smiling and Robb surrounded by his four children. Instead it was only Alayne, stood on the steps of the Red Keep with four Baratheon guards around her. _She is their prisoner now,_ Tyran realised horror-stricken, _just like mother was._

When Tyran dismounted his mare, Alayne rushed to him, but before she could take a few leaps down the steps, a guard held her back: a huge man with trembling arms and a face that even scared Tyran a bit. He had never seen this monstrous man before. He hoped he never would again.

“Release her,” Tyran shouted. He approached his sister and the guard, his hand on Quickblade, ready to draw it if he had to. “Or you will answer to my blade."

“We take our orders from the Princess,” said the guard who held his sister.

"And the Princess orders you to assault her good sister? I think not, my Lord." Tyran withdrew his great Valyrian Steel sword as he charged towards the great man. Gerion took to his side, holding his own blade out, ready for a fight. “You are abusing the _Queen._ She is still your Queen until Princess Alyse takes the crown."

They released her and Tyran returned his sword to his sheath. His auburn haired sister walked swiftly across to him, relieved to be out of the man's grasp. When she approached him, Tyran embraced her warmly. He had missed her more than he imagined he would: the sound of her laughs, her mocking words and teases and the comfort she provided him with. But the girl who stood hard as ice in his arms was not the girl who laughed and teased him when they were children. The stiff girl in his arms punched him square in the nose.

***

At first she had been relieved to see Tyran. He had come to save her. No one would harm her while her big brother was here: her powerful big brother who was the wealthiest man in Westeros with the largest host, controller of the gold mines and Warden of the South. Ser Deryn would not visit her bedchambers and Alyse could not touch her. When she saw him ride in on his horse: big and brave and strong, she was overpowered with love and gratitude. And then she hit him, though he was not the brother to hit.

When she hit Tyran she thought she was going to be killed. She heard the shouts from Ser Deryn and the other three men she had not learned the names of. It was not one of them who went to punish her, but the boy who stood at Tyran’s side: a handsome golden haired boy who looked very similar to his liege Lord and he pulled her from her brother. His grip was not very tight, rough or bruising. She was grateful he had gotten to her before any of the others.

“It’s alright Gerion,” Tyran soothed. “I have received worse punches.”

Alayne’s breath caught in her mouth. _He’s going to hit me. He’s going to drag me by the hair and make me cry and rape me._ But the man Tyran called Gerion did not hurt her, but released her on Lord Tyran's command and allowed the siblings the close proximity they had before. She rested her head on his shoulder, Tyran's mouth close to her ear, his breath warm and smelling of bacon.

“What has happened?” Tyran whispered.

She did not reply. What would they do to her if she told her brother what Ser Deryn had done? That since a week ago Alyse had stopped sending food to her room in attempt to starve her to death. Alyse had managed to make both Helena and Lucian’s death look accidental. The Gods only knew what she intended to do to hers.

“Come back to my chambers,” Tyran said, “I think we need to talk.”

***

When Tyran arrived at King’s Landing, it had been his intention to see his sister, and then go straight to Alyse. _Gods he had missed her._ It was unreal how much he had missed Alyse. Especially since Selene died and he had been so lonely and miserable. He needed Alyse to share his bed and make him laugh. But instead he took his sister back to their chambers; it was too risky taking her to their family’s quarters as it was too big of a room to be sure that it was safe not to be heard. He took Alayne into his water room where he had been bathed by his squires so many times. Nobody would be able to hear them here, but why did Alayne look so frightened and silent?

He had pulled up two chairs from his chambers and placed them opposite one another. Alayne took the one against the wall, but she stared down at her lap, picking at a seam on her mourning dress.

“Alayne,” Tyran began. “Alayne _talk_ to me.” He grabbed her hand, but Alayne withdrew it quicker than a regular instinct would. She rubbed the wrist where he had grabbed her, looking at him with fright. “Alayne, sweetest sister. _Talk to me_.”

But her lips would not move. No sound came from her mouth. His darling sister who had always been so charismatic and funny sat as quiet as a Silent Sister and more frightened than he had ever seen one person look.

“Has somebody hurt you?”

***

 _A lot of people have hurt me, dear brother, but not as much as the pain I feel for our mother, father and brother abandoning me._ The fright she felt when she was left alone with Ser Deryn was an extremely close second, but that was her own fault (though of course it was not, but she did not know that) because she did not know where her brother had left to go. It was a punishment that she deserved for being the sister of a traitor who had poisoned the King (a clever lie that Alyse had configured to take the blame away from her). Alyse could manipulate the people at court, have Ser Deryn whisper lies in her ear, but Alayne knew the truth.

“Alayne... Please... I know Robb left you – I was furious when he told me that was his choice. I know the danger you would be in, that’s why I rode so quickly to get you out! What happened Alayne? I know something happened.”

Every time she closed her eyes she remembered Ser Deryn raping her. He had done it countless times – so many that she lost count. Sometimes the pain from the time before had hurt so badly that she wasn’t fully aware that he had penetrated her again. She wasn’t allowed a bath until the previous evening, so for a week she was unfed and unwashed and stunk of Ser Deryn’s seed. They had only allowed her to bathe because Tyran would be in King’s Landing, and even Ser Deryn was smart enough to know the danger he would be in if her brother discovered what he did to her.

“N-N-Nothing,” Alayne struggled. “Alyse has looked after me. Cared for me and kept me fed.”

Her brother stared at her. _He knows I am lying._ Alayne had never been a good liar. Only once had she lied to Ser Deryn about Robb’s whereabouts and he had realised the lie then. How could he not tell that she did not truly know where her brother is? _Because he likes to rape me, that’s why._

“Alayne,” Tyran began. “we shall not stay long. Tell me now and I shall have the person who has harmed you see the King's Justice."

“No one has hurt me.”

***

She had always been a terrible liar. He could see by the cuts on her knuckles, the slightly swollen lip, faintly bruised eye and how shaken she was when Gerion grabbed her that something was the matter with his sister. The truth would be worse than what Tyran was thinking what had happened to his little sister. He knew what men could be like and he knew what Alyse could do.

“My wife killed herself last moon, leaving our son without a mother and me with the constant memory of watching her fall from the window and I stood there, unable to help her. Do you ever dream about bad things that have happened to you, Alayne?” Stiffly, she nodded. “Talking can help. I told Gerion what happened and it helped the guilt fade. I can help you, Alayne.”

“Unless you can turn back time, then you can’t.”

“I shall find out what happened,” Tyran vowed. "And I will hurt the man or the woman who gave you that bruised eye and cut lip.”

“I fell,” was the awful lie Deryn had told her to tell him. “I fell down some stairs.”

 _Thank the Gods she is an awful liar._ “Then will you spend the night in my chambers? I do not want you alone in this castle anymore with anyone but my men. Are we at an agreement?” She nodded once more. “I need to speak with Alyse, but I shall not be long. I will have my servants run you a bath and bring you food. Gerion will stand at your door and guard you. I will not be long,” he gave his sister a kiss on the cheek and went to the door. “I am furious at Robb for leaving you without guards. My late instructions were to wait until I was a day’s ride from King’s Landing and then to go to Winterfell. I will kill him for leaving you.”

_Can you kill me too, brother, and stop these memories from haunting my brain?_

***

Tyran found Alyse where he knew she would be: sat upon her father’s throne with her golden crown atop her head. Court stopped when Tyran entered with his twenty men, two knights of the Kingsguard – or soon to be Queensguard – pulled the weeping peasant aside and the crowds parted for the Lannister men to make their entrance. Alyse descended the stairs as he approached her. She wore a low cut, tight, red dress which was undoubtedly for Tyran’s sake, and he appreciated her choice of garments too. The Princess batted away the hand of a Knight as she met Tyran at the foot of the throne.

“Your Grace,” Tyran bowed to her.

“Lord Tyran,” she curtsied.

He had almost forgotten how truly beautiful Alyse Baratheon was and the smile she gave him which would send his heart racing and his stomach flipping. He would have taken her in his arms right there and then, regardless of the men around them if he could. Tyran missed her touch and he leaned into kiss her, but she moved her head so he kissed her cheek, and then the other.

“It is so good to see you again, Princess,” Tyran announced.

“Court is over for today,” Alyse declared. “We shall continue on the morrow _after_ my coronation.”

There was a rush to leave the room. Tyran dismissed his own men and stood still, staring at his lover’s beautiful face. He struggled to find any imperfection on her at all, and when the room was emptied and Alyse had reassured her Knights that she wished to be left alone with Tyran, she grabbed the back of his head and pulled him to kiss her. She tasted of the familiar honey and almonds: both of their favourite sweet foods.

“I missed you,” Alyse breathed in between their kisses. “I need you.”

“Mmm,” Tyran agreed, gripping her back, burying his fingers into the velvet of her gown. “Not in the throne room.”

Alyse chuckled and kissed the lining of his jaw. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife.”

“I did not come all this way so we could talk about her.”

“Did you push her?”

He drew away from her. “Do you think I would kill my own wife?”

“I would be flattered if you did.”

“She jumped,” Tyran insisted.

His Princess gave him a small smile and took his hand. “My brother died too.”

“It was a few days after Selene.”

“She gave you a son,” Alyse stated. “The son I could never give you! Marry me Tyran! Wed me and I will name Caster as my heir, I will be a mother to him and you can become my King and we can live forever at King’s Landing. No one can stop us being together. Not your Grandfather, not my father and I won’t let Grandmother try and stop us either. We can be a family together!”

The offer was too tempting. Two years ago he would have seized the opportunity to marry the Princess Alyse but now, with Robb and Alayne and his parents and Caster, he would not abandon their plans for a better Westeros by siding with his lover. But if he rejected her, then she would know something was amiss and try to stop him from leaving after the coronation...

“Your coronation is tomorrow?” Tyran asked.

“I wanted you to see me in a crown.”

Tyran nodded to the top of her head. “You’re in one.”

“My _new_ crown. You should see it Tyran: it’s forged gold from my father’s and my own crown. It’s the most beautiful crown I have ever seen! If you wed me you can have your own.”

“I am supposed to be in mourning for my wife,” Tyran smiled.

“If you won’t marry me then be my Hand of the King. I don’t want Mace Tyrell anymore.”

“He is your Grandfather.”

“ _You_ are all I want.”

And the Iron Throne, and power and leverage and gold. He gave his Princess a kiss. Tomorrow she would be his Queen and the day after he would leave her. What if he could not bear to part with her again? He had always known it would be difficult to leave her, to mount his horse and steer it off into the opposite direction, away from her once more. But with her in his arms, taking her in her bed the following night, it would be near impossible to leave her. Perhaps he should stay and be King and fight against his own brother, force his sister to stay in a city which she was clearly petrified of being in all for the selfish sake of wanting to be Alyse’s husband. He wished he was never in love with her. He wished he hated her.

***

Tyran’s friend Gerion ran her a bath as she sat on her brother’s bed pretending to read a book. Gerion and a squire filled buckets of hot water and poured t into the tin bath as she sat by the open window, the wind blowing in her face, wondering if she would die if she jumped out the tower.

“The bath is ready, your Grace,” Gerion Lannister announced, hot and sweaty from carrying buckets. “Your brother’s asked me to stand by your door. I hope that’s not too _informal_ of me.”

Alayne shook her head. Standing with his back to her as she undressed was an uncommon event with her; she was used to Ser Deryn leering at her and touching her as she undressed. When she went into Tyran’s wet room she expected Gerion to turn into Ser Deryn and rape her, or for Gerion to do it himself, but he stayed sat beside the door with a cup of wine and platter of olives she had given to him. She climbed into the steaming hot bath and winced.

“Are you alright, your Grace?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

She submerged herself into the boiling water, watching her hair float against the surface of the water and her limps drop down to the bottom. After adjusting to the hot water, she began to enjoy it and pushed her head over the bath and let out a sigh. It was the most relaxed she had been in a year.

“Would you like me to get a handmaiden to bathe you, your Grace?”

She had almost fallen asleep and if she did, it would have been the best sleep since her husband died. When she thought of Lucian she felt her eyes sting with tears, and when she thought about the horrific events that followed his death her body seized up, her stomach tied into knots and she felt incredibly sick. Perhaps the heat of the water had been a good pain release for her: burning herself against the scalding water _had_ taken her mind off her calamity that followed the death of the King.

Holding her breath, she slipped down under the surface of the water. She clutched the side of the tin bath and opened her eyes, watching her body take control of itself against the pressure of the water and float. Her hair rose to the top and covered a small amount of the surface like clouds in the sky. It was beautiful under the water, she could stay like it forever.

Suddenly, she felt a force push against her as she was pulled to the surface. She battled against the hands that seized her by her shoulders, expecting it to be Ser Deryn who would push her against the tin bath and insert himself in her. Instead it was Ser Gerion he dragged her out of the bath.

“ _Please don’t hurt me,_ ” she begged of him like a small child. Ser Deryn had told her many times how begging for him to stop hurting her had only made him want her more. She should scream for help, but nobody had heard or helped her in the past. Why would this time be any different?

“I’m not going to hurt you, your Grace,” Gerion panted. He looked around frantically as if the sight of Alayne’s body repulsed him, covered in bruises and cuts and a horrific wound where glass had cut into her abdomen, she would not have been surprised if it did. “Let me grab your small clothes.” He did so.  “I thought you were trying to drown yourself.”

She would have done that last night if she could. Alayne only wanted to be under the water to stop herself from thinking about everything, but she couldn’t very well tell Gerion that. _But he saw my body. He’ll tell Tyran._

“Don’t tell him!” She rasped. “ _Please_.”

“Your Grace-”

“-He’ll do something!

“He’s your brother!”

“He said we’re going to Winterfell to Robb and mother and father. He’ll start something in the capitol and get himself killed! Do you want to see him killed?” Gerion Lannister shook his head. “Don’t tell him... I’ll tell him when we’re at Winterfell,” she lied. She was a terrible liar but Gerion did not know her. He wouldn’t know if she was lying or not.

“Would you tell me? I’ve killed a man and nobody found out it was me.”

“You couldn’t kill this one.”

Gerion withdrew his blade. At the pommel was a silver tower with a ruby gateway. Alayne frowned at him.

“You’re a Frey?”

“My father is the infamous Black Walder Frey,” Gerion said derisively, “your Lord Grandfather legitimised me as a Lannister when I was only a babe. Now I’ve told you a secret you must promise to keep it.”

“It’s not a good idea to go around with a tower on your pommel then.”

Gerion Lannister laughed. “Perhaps I should change it for a lion.”

“Did Black Walder rape your mother?”

Alayne had not bled for the entirety of the moon and was terrified that Ser Deryn had put a bastard on her. “Did somebody rape you?”

“How did you know that?”

He gave her a small smile and went to touch her hand. When he did, Alayne shot back, stumbling back against the bath, splashing water over the side and it trickled down her back. The smile Gerion had given her vanished with a look of concern, and he sat back to give her space.

“He raped my mother when she was a young girl, no older than thirteen. I carry this sword because it was his greatest treasure and I stole it from him when I myself were thirteen. I hope to kill him one day. I’ll ask you again, Queen Alayne, who raped you?”

“I am not Queen anymore,” Alayne snapped. “I don’t even know you. Why – _why_ _are you telling me this_?”

“Because your brother told me to protect you, _your Grace_ and you are my Queen until this farce of a coronation tomorrow.”

“I am not a Queen anymore,” Alayne hissed.

“Yes you are,” Gerion disagreed. He unsheathed his sword and lay it at Alayne’s knees. “Allow me to be the first Knight of your Queensguard, your Grace.” She looked confused. Was this boy kicked in the head by a horse when he was a boy, or did being hard of hearing and understanding just come naturally to him? “Your brother will explain everything to you in due course. As for now, just know that you will get your vengeance for everyone that hurt you. I will make sure of that.”

_Well my Knight, it is a very long list._

***

They arrived at Winterfell. The grounds were covered in snow and a light flurry beat against them as their horses rode into the keep. The castle was deserted apart from servants and stable boys who rushed to tend to the rightful Lord and his family. Robb climbed off his horse, his boots crunching in the snow when he made contact with the ground and stood with his hand on his hips.

“Ned!” Robb called behind him to the little boy who was crawling out of the litter. “Lyanna, Serena and William. This is to be your new home. You’ll be safe here now. No one can hurt you up here.” His mother went to his side. “Welcome home, mother.”

She kissed his cheek. “Shall I have the servants make us dinner? You must be hungry.”

“Good idea mother; we can all dine at Winterfell as our first act of arrival. Father! Grace! To the Great Hall!”

Her son was giddy with enjoyment and proud that he had arrived at Winterfell with all his men alive and his family happy and safe. They laughed and talked with each other as they walked through the hallways of Winterfell, Robb taking the lead and walking backwards so he could see his family. He especially loved showing Grace and his children the architecture and decorations that he was so proud of. When they got to the Great Hall, Robb swung open the doors.

While everybody gazed around the surprisingly highly decorated Great Hall ready for a feast, Sansa stared at the Lord’s chair, where she remembered all too well her father sitting and passing court. But the seat was not taken by her father, but by a tall and slim boy with dark red hair with a smirk on his face.

“Welcome home, sister.”


	37. Starks of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone reveals the truth, Alyse is crowned Queen, Alayne finds a friend, Gerion feels guilty for using Alayne for his own purpose, Sansa learns of her mother and Tyrion strikes his son.

Sansa could have dropped to her knees. _Dead. My brother is supposed to be dead_. Rickon Stark was supposed to have been burned by Theon Greyjoy when he took Winterfell from them, from us. They had taunted her with their deaths. Sansa had endured years of her life believing that she was the only Stark left. First Arya came to her then the boy with the prominent chin, thick brows and navy cloak who sat in their father's chair. It might have been Robb if he was still alive, or Bran if his legs weren't swinging from the chair. There was only one person alive who could call her sister. 

“Who are you?” her son Robb demanded.

“Didn’t your mother ever speak to you of me? I am Rickon Stark.”

The surprise that Robb might have felt for seeing his Uncle was nothing compared to the shock Sansa felt for seeing her youngest brother, alive and well in the Lord’s chair their father had once sat. She would not have recognised him if it was not for the black and giant Direwolf that sat by his side that he had named Shaggydog as a little boy.  _Still alive._ Both Shaggydog and Rickon were both alive. 

“Rickon,” Sansa breathed. “You’re alive.”

The little boy smiled. “I’m pleased you remember me. I don’t remember much about you. Bran told me-”

“-Bran’s alive?”

Rickon shuffled around in the chair the same as Lord Eddard had done when faced with an awkward proposition. “I have not seen Bran in sixteen years.”

Sansa should have been joyous at seeing her little brother again, but she was mature enough to suspect the bad in people. What if this man was not really Rickon Stark, but an imposter like the Arya Stark they had sent to marry Roose Bolton’s bastard or the babe they replaced Prince Aegon Targaryen with? But the man who sat before them all could be no one other than Rickon Stark; he was almost identical to their brother Robb and possessed the same characteristics as their father, and this is without mentioning the giant Direwolf that stood beside him. Sansa Stark had said her farewells to Rickon in the yard on that cold day at Winterfell. Sansa Lannister had said her farewells to him in the Godswood when he was murdered.

“Can I hug you, sister?”

Sansa nodded and Rickon got out of the Lord’s chair and approached his elder sister. Rickon stood perhaps a foot taller than Sansa – taller than most men she encountered, and she held her brother tightly, stroking the back of his head tenderly. She had waited sixteen years to see one of her brother’s again, she was not going to waste their reunion with her impatient son demanding answers from him.

“So if you’re Rickon Stark, why haven’t you come to Winterfell already?”

Rickon released his older sister. “You had Garlan Tyrell here with ten thousand of Tyrell men. How was I supposed to fight him with eight thousand men from Skagos?”

 _Skagos._ They had searched Skagos island years ago searching for him. “My father sent men to Skagos when he thought you would be there,” Tyrion alerted. “How did they not find you?”

To this, Rickon let out a snigger. “They put me on a boat and sailed me elsewhere.”

“Garlan Tyrell had ten thousand men at Winterfell with him. You could have beaten him with eight thousand easily.”

Rickon shrugged. “It’s cold at Winterfell, and we took it back from him three years ago. We kept him in a dungeon and he replied to the letters he was sent to make everything seem like it was fine up in the north and denied any requests to visit. We killed his wife though; she tried to escape.”

“ _We_?”

“I lead the Skagosi men to battle here at Winterfell. I am Lord of Skagos now; when Lord Manderly died he named me his heir as both his son’s died taking Winterfell. If you’re frightened I’ll want Winterfell, boy you don’t need to worry; you’re higher in line than me.”

“Since when?” Robb scoffed. "Didn't they teach you the line of succession in Skagos, man?”

“Not anymore I’m not,” Rickon sighed. “Winterfell belongs to mother; Queen Alyse changed the law so the line of inheritance falls to the first born, then second born regardless of male or female. Robb’s dead so Winterfell belongs to mother, then to her eldest son, and then to you.”

“Winterfell is mine,” Robb said coolly, “Tyran has Casterly Rock. He will allow me Winterfell.”

“Let’s not argue about this,” Sansa soothed. She put a hand on her son’s shoulder. If it came to a fight between the hot headed Robb and Rickon she would be expected to side with her son over the brother who she believed to be dead for seventeen years. Tyran would give Robb Winterfell, that was unquestionable, but would Rickon surrender their father’s holdfast so quickly because of a new law put into place?

***

Alyse woke Tyran early the day after he arrived at King’s Landing. The Princess’ bed was the comfiest he had slept in a long time – comfier than the one at Casterly Rock and the bed his servants assembled in the tents and the moth eaten planks in the inns he'd had to endure. He felt as if he was sleeping on air, sinking into the mattress for a long and peaceful sleep. He did not dream about Selene that night, as he did very night: watching her small clothes sway in the evening breeze, or the peace death gave her, nor did he dream of the inevitable war.

“You have to leave now,” Alyse whispered in his ear, shaking him gently by the shoulder. “My handmaidens will be here in a minute.”

Tyran grunted. “It’s your coronation today?”

Alyse confirmed that it was, kissing his shoulder. “You’ve got bulkier since last time I saw you. I like it.”

“I do more sword practice now.”

“Why?” _Because I am going to be fighting in a war very soon._ She did not ask for an answer from him, but climbed out of bed and slipped into her small clothes. “You do need to go now. Your robes are on the chair.”

He rolled out of bed sheepishly, changing into the clothes he had worn earlier. When he returned to his chambers, he would have a long bath to get the scent of Alyse off him and wear the clothes he had wed Selene in; they were the finest that he owned. He would break his fast with Caster and Jasmine, Gerion and Alayne too before they would ride to the sept and join in the celebrations, commemorating a new Queen.

“I love you,” Alyse whispered as she drew him into a kiss. “A Queen needs a King.”

He kissed her temple. “I will be your King one day.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

“You will have to wait or I will not marry you at all. If you want me to find my brother and return him to King’s Landing for questioning, then I cannot marry you soon; it would not be acceptable for me to leave my new wife on her own.”

Her face lit up. “You would bring your brother to me?”

“Of course.”

“He has no right to Winterfell.” _Actually, yes he does._ “On the morrow, I’m going to change the law that the first born of every family inherits the land regardless of their gender, like they do in Dorne. Everybody says that I shouldn’t do it, but I don’t give a shit about what they say. What do _you_ think I should do?”

“It will save a lot of hassle if you change it,” Tyran lied. “Do it. You have my support.”

“It prevents Robb from claiming Winterfell too unless you give it to him – which I know you won’t once you’re my King.”

“I would definitely deprive my brother of the lands he is supposed to inherit.”

Alyse frowned. “Is that sarcasm?”

“Absolutely not.”

She considered him for a few moments before pulling him into a kiss again. Her breath tasted stale and her mouth was dry and her lips chapped, but he did not care about any of that. Tyran had not seen his Lady love in two years, he would not stop kissing her for such a silly thing as having rancid breath in the morning which he was certain he had too before he chewed some mint grass.

“I shall see you in the sept,” Tyran whispered into her neck.

***

They broke their fast together: Tyran and Caster, Alayne and Caster’s wet nurse Jasmine and Gerion and his three bastards Mikael Storm, Percy Hill and Tygar Sand. It was said that Tygar’s mother was the youngest of Prince Oberyn’s sand snakes: Loreza Sand. Gerion seldom spoke about the mother’s of his children. He had reluctance discussing it with Alayne when she inquired the topic.

“Is it true what Jasmine told me, that Tygar’s mother is Loreza Sand?”

She saw him flinch and scuffle around in his chair. “I’ll tell you the truth if you give me the name of the man who raped you.”

“Is this a game to you? You tell me a secret and you expect me to give you the name of the man who haunts my dreams?”

“I expect you to give me the name of the man who haunts your dreams so I can kill him. My youngest son Mikael’s mother was raped and I murdered the seven men who did it. Mikael is not my true son, but I took him as my own when Ursula died. He could be mine, but it is unlikely.”

“I didn’t ask about Mikael’s mother, I asked about Tygar’s.”

“Do you think a western man like me would name their son Tygar? His mother did it to mock House Lannister’s lion.”

“So it is Loreza Sand."

“Interpret that as you will,” Gerion said with a smile.

Four children entered the room. Three of them were Gerion’s children and Alayne’s eyes followed Tygar Sand into the room as he sat by his father. She could not remember ever encountering a Dornish person, but four-year-old Tygar had olive skin, dark black hair and hazel eyes. He certainly _looked_ highborn.

“So your... whatever the title you want to give her, gave you Percy when you were twelve?”

“She was my first woman,” Gerion said with a smile, “and she gave me our first son.”

She thought Gerion to be very interesting. He told her about his life before he came into the service of her brother: he studied in Braavos, hoping to become a Faceless Man because he loved the taste of blood but could not quite meet the requirements. He then returned to Westeros as a well paid man who murdered people at high Lord’s requests. It gave him an extortionate amount of gold which welcomed him back to House Lannister as the bastard Great-Nephew of Tywin Lannister.

Tyran promptly arrived with the Wet Nurse, holding a squirming babe in his arms. Alayne mistook her nephew as one of Gerion's bastard sons originally until it became clear the child belonged to her brother. She had not yet encountered the young boy, this time was the first she had ever seen him and she stared at him in awe, wondering what Tyran did to deserve a son and what Alayne did to be deprived of any child. 

“Would you like to hold him?” Her brother asked Alayne.

She took the bouncing baby boy off his lap. Alayne stood him up, holding him under the pits of his arm as Tyran sat himself at the table and began to serve food. Alayne did not have much of an appetite, she seldom did nowadays, but she would not have chosen to eat anyway. Having Caster in her arms took up too much of her attention, watching the golden haired little boy open and close his mouth and making popping noises, the occasional string of saliva dripping from his mouth she would wipe with her sleeve and laugh with him, allowing him to grab strands of her hair and twist it round his hands. She would have loved a child if she could have one from Lucian, but if she had a child in her now from Ser Deryn, she would not know what to do. 

***

His close household rode to the Sept together; Gerion and Tyran lead House Lannister through the streets with his sister Alayne and son Caster in the litter with wet nurse Jasmine. It was a bracing day, Tyran fastened his fur cloak with a lion head pin which reflected against the sun when they rode in the outdoors. From travelling, Tyran was still sore from sitting on a horse, but he would not have himself seen as weak before the men of Westeros by riding in a litter with the women and his babe. He endured horseback, biting his gum to prevent yelling out in pain when his old horse would stumble over rocks.

“You should kill that horse and get a new one, Ty,” Gerion advised.

 _Selene’s brother told me the same thing._ “Why should we kill animals when they get old? We do not do it to people, why should we do it to animals?”

“Because in a few minutes your horse will collapse in front of your host and shame you.”

Tyran put a hand to his horse’s neck and rubbed him. He was an old stallion with a broken hoof that had been replaced countless times and an eye filled with pus. The horse had been a gift; he could not bear to kill it.

“Did you speak with my sister as I asked of you to?”

Gerion nodded and pulled his horse in closer to Tyran. “Yes. She still won’t tell me anything.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No. She hasn’t told me anything.”

“I thought you were usually good with swaying women,” Tyran let out a sigh. “She has told you nothing that has happened to her in my brother’s absence? Alayne told you _nothing_ of the cut on her neck and the gash on her shoulder?”

“Nothing.”

Tyran let out a sigh. He would skin Robb for leaving Alayne in the capitol on her own. Initially, it might have been a good idea; it would have given Tyran an excuse to come to the capitol if Alyse had not invited him herself, but the results in their under thought plan concerning their sister resulted in her being too frightened to mutter two words to her brother.

“I told you I would give you your own castle and lands and wife if you managed to talk to my sister and find out what has happened to her.”

“Yes,” Gerion said, “but she hasn’t told me anything.”

There was a strain in Gerion’s voice that told Tyran he was being untruthful. “You will have to be quicker upon discovering what happened to her. If she will not talk to me, she will talk to you. Alayne must have been very lonely with her husband bed ridden and unable to function properly.”

Gerion glanced across him on the horse with a confused expression on his face. “You think if I share your sister’s bed tonight, she will tell me what happened?”

“Mayhaps.”

The older boy laughed. “Your sister, she is very beautiful, very kind but very damaged. I will not take a girl to bed, despite her beauty, to get information from her.”

“You have three bastards from three different mothers. You are hardly one to talk to me of morals.”

“I’m sorry if my not wanting to fuck your sister offends you, _my Lord_ ,” Gerion Lannister snapped derisively. “You said so yourself: Alayne is sullen and quiet and grieving – do you think I am the man to take advantage of a girl in such disposition?”

“You were accepted back into House Lannister because you killed unworthy men for Lord's and Knights,” Tyran said coolly. “It seems to be you do not have many morals.”

“I am a firm believer that it is wrong to take a woman unwillingly and men that do such things deserve to be punished. I will not stand to be a hypocrite, Tyran. I will not take advantage of your sister as she grieves and overcomes the harm that was thrust upon her after Lord Robb abandoned her at King’s Landing – _abandoned._ Is that not the word you said to me this morning? That Robb _abandoned_ your little sister so he could take Winterfell and start the war quicker than planned?”

“I did say abandoned and I will deal with Robb when we reach Winterfell in a month or two. As for now, I do not need your lectures on principles, _bastard._ ”

“Bastard,” Gerion spat. “I am supposedly your trusted advisor – I carry your fucking banner when we ride. I sit your war councils, sup with you and share your tent when they are all taken. You need my lectures on _friendship._ Fuck morality, fuck your sister, fuck _House Lannister_ , we are supposed to be friends.”

“We are friends and stop acting like a child.”

“I agreed to join your host when you offered me fifty gold dragons to protect your sister and discover any necessary information from her. You can keep your gold and keep your trust. I don’t want it anymore.”

“I gave you good gold to join my household; you are my blood. If you think I will allow you to abandon my sister-”

“-Did I say I was going to leave?”

Tyran eyed his ‘friend’. They were almost at the sept; Gerion rode his horse to the right of Tyran, distancing himself from him. He stared straight ahead, not bearing to look his liege Lord in the face.

“You have fallen in love with my sister,” Tyran remarked.

“So what if I have?”

“I am giving you my blessing to take her to bed. Why would you reject that honour?”

“Because there is more to love than fucking someone. Perhaps if you realised that while you spent your time in Alyse Baratheon’s bed there wouldn’t be a fucking war and your sister wouldn’t need my protection.”

Tyran muttered something under his breath and dismounted his horse. Usually Kings or Queens would be crowned in the throne room, but this did not apply to Alyse Baratheon; she wished to be crowned in front of the Faith of the Seven where her mother and father had been married. She told Tyran it was more poetic, that better songs would be made from it. When Robb would be crowned King there wouldn’t be a Sept for him to chose to be crowned under. He’d perhaps annihilate the entire religion of the Seven Gods and turn everybody back to the Old Gods. There was a likelier chance that Tyran would make a better King than Robb, but the eldest brother had no desire to sit the Iron Throne; all he wanted was Casterly. _And Alyse._

***

”In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Alyse of the House Baratheon, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. Long may she reign.”

A chorus of _long may she reign_ echoed throughout the sept as the glorious golden crown ablaze with diamonds was rested on the Queen’s head. She looked so smug, stood there before the Septon with her gown which trail tumbled down the steps of the Sept, falling to the bottom, all held into place by young girls. Alayne had never seen somebody as beautiful as Queen Alyse Baratheon, nor had she ever seen anybody she hated more.

“I give you my gratitude for being here,” _not that we had much of a choice._ “As my first act of ruling Queen, I declare that the first born of every House be granted the lands and titles to which its mother and father before them own, be they female or male.”

Of course she would do this. She would gain the favour of first born women but lose the favour of any sons born anywhere else but first. Half the Kingdom would go into turmoil over this law: brother and sister would battle against one another, sons and daughters. Alayne was grateful that Tyran would be kind enough to give Robb Winterfell and keep Casterly Rock for himself. But this resulted in no lands belonging to Alayne, and she would be forced to marry if she wanted to gain any importance in life. She thought of Ser Deryn and the time he told her that she was his because she was not important to the world. He was right; Alayne was the third born child of a dwarf and a traitor’s daughter. She was not respectful enough to marry high and gain lands of her own.

“I told you this was a farce,” Gerion whispered in her ear. He stood behind her, garbed in Lannister red with his sword in his sheath, his hand resting on the silver pommel. Alayne told him to be quiet. “I’m not afraid of her.” _You should be._ “Are you packed?”

She nodded. Alayne would finally leave King’s Landing early on the morrow. She wished to attend the Queen’s coronation as a courtesy, but also to know that this would be the last time she would ever seen Queen Alyse of the House Baratheon alive and with that malevolence look and smile on her face.

_If my brother’s do not kill her than I will. Not for my sake, but for Lucian’s and Helena’s. I owe them the courtesy of their deaths being avenged._

***

Rickon took Sansa around the grounds of Winterfell, taking her by the arm. They walked through the gardens and Sansa would tell her little brother fond tales of the times they would play together as children, their Direwolves racing each other in the snow. Rickon Stark seemed saddened that he did not remember his mother or father, or Robb or Arya. He remembered Bran and told his older sister that he was safe. Sansa knew better than to believe the words of somebody trying to do their best for them.

“Did you ever see Jon?” Rickon asked sullenly.

“No,” Sansa breathed. “He was murdered-”

“-Or so they claim.” Sansa looked to her little brother in confusion. “Have you ever heard of the Lord of Light?”

“Stannis Baratheon followed him.”

“He had a woman named Melisandre. She went to the wall when King Joffrey attacked Winterfell. Followers of the Lord of the Light are said to have... the ability to bring people back from the dead.”

Sansa laughed. “You believe that Jon has been resurrected?”

“Mother was.”

“Rickon?”

Her little brother let out a sigh and stopped walking around the gardens. “She encountered Beric Dondarrion: the head of the Brotherhood without Banners who also followed the Lord of Light. He returned mother back from the dead. It’s true; Brienne of Tarth and Jaime Lannister saw her-”

“ _Jaime Lannister_?”

“The Kingslayer,” Rickon confirmed. “They came to find me. In exchange for their lives when I was a young boy, they took me from Skagos with Lord Manderly’s permission and returned me to my mother – except she wasn’t Lady Catelyn anymore; they called her Lady Stoneheart. She hanged Brienne before she shouted out my name and they returned _her_ from the dead too. I know this sounds crazy, Sansa, but you must believe me.”

“I do believe you,” Sansa said, “continue.”

“And so they found me and took me to our mother. I stayed with the Brotherhood and mother for three moons, maybe four. That was until Shaggydog ripped her throat apart when she struck me.”

“Why did she strike you?”

“Because I left without Bran. She seldom spoke about it, but she remembered. Her _darling_ Bran. So Shaggydog and I left with Jaime and Brienne. We went to Skagos and it seemed like a perfect ending until they vanished.”

“They vanished?”

“When word reached Skagos that Myrcella Baratheon was dead, they fled. Jaime was her father and Brienne was in love with Jaime so she followed him. They never came back.”

A gust of wind rippled Sansa’s auburn hair and through Rickon’s too. It was a lot to comprehend. “But what has this to do with Jon?”

“The Lady Melisandre’s was never returned to Winterfell as requested and neither was Jon’s. They say Jon was burned at the wall to stop him from coming back while others say he was reborn from the ashes. Believe what you will, I think Jon is alive. I saw mother after they cut her neck at the Twins. Jon could be alive!”

Sansa hoped so for her little brother’s sake. “I saw Arya but she’s a long way from home.” _She promised me she would come to Winterfell two years ago for Robb’s sixteenth name day. It was two years later. Where was she_? “She’s alive and well. She has a son too named Jon. When she finds out that you and I are at Winterfell, she’ll come home.”

The voice of a little boy returned to Rickon Stark, hopelessly in need of his family. Sansa remembered when she was like him once. She still was, really. “Do you really think so?”

“She promised me.”

***

Tyrion had never liked Winterfell; it had always been too cold, the people too bitter, the wine stale and the food not comparable to the fine cuisines he was served in King’s Landing and Casterly Rock. But now he had to endure it all the same; Winterfell would be his home for the foreseeable future, and the north was safe and bountiful and the people he loved where here. Tyran and Alayne would be returned to him soon. He thought about Tyran and how he must be feeling to leave the woman he loved for a second time, knowing only this time that the next time he would see Queen Alyse she would be dead. Tyrion shuddered and his wife looked across to him.

“Are you alright?”

Tyrion put his book down on the table. “Are _you_?”

“I’m the happiest I’ve been in years, or I will be when Tyran and Alayne are here.”

“It’s Alyse’s coronation today. They’re taking the ship at dusk on the morrow with their men. They should both be here in a month.”

“Alyse was Margaery’s daughter. She was like a daughter to _me_.”

Tyrion took Sansa’s hand. “And to me too until she started murdering people.”

“That wasn’t Alyse’s fault! Joffrey was an awful father to her and she craved his attention.”

 _My father was terrible to me but I didn’t go and sentence hundreds of innocent men to death to gain his favour._ “You should not be defending her.”

“I’m not defending her. We should never have left Alayne in the capitol.”

“We didn’t know-”

“-Tyrion she’s our _daughter_! For all we know Alyse could have - could have done something to her!”

“Alayne is Alyse’s sister by law. She would not hurt her.”

“I was supposed to be Joffrey’s wife but he still beat me and stripped me in front of court, threatened to rape me and murdered my father before my eyes and then took me to the castle walls and made me stare at his head. I remember how terrified I was, what if Alyse has treated Alayne the same?”

Tyrion didn’t believe that Alayne had been treated well at King’s Landing. He lay awake one night, early into the ride, wide awake with fear and contemplating turning around alone and riding off. That was until he heard the cry of his Grandson and he lay still, listening to his cries which continued for a good few minutes. Tyrion had left his bed with Sansa to check on his Grandson. It was little surprise it was William left to cry in his tent. If it had been Ned both Grace and Robb would be at his side to comfort him. Tyrion had been right in assuming that Robb would neglect his son. He neglected Serena and even Lyanna now, too. Robb was not the boy he had raised.

“Does it bother you Robb neglects his children?” Tyrion sighed.

“No he doesn’t,” Sansa disagreed as she always did when it came to discussing Robb’s love – or lack of – for his children. “He’s busy. You can’t think it’s easy to plan a war, do you?”

“I never said it was, and he always finds time for Ned.”

Sansa stiffened. “Ned is his heir.”

“As Robb was yours, but you never loved him more than Tyran and Alayne, did you?”

“Alayne will hate us for leaving her,” Sansa whispered. “Leaving her on her own, her husband’s corpse still warm with no friends and in a city she knows is dangerous.”

“We can’t know that,” Tyrion stated, more to convince himself than his wife. “Just... _Calm down._ Alayne will be with us soon and she’ll be fine and her cheery self.”

She looked at him with her big, blue eyes. “Do you really believe that?”

Tyrion nodded and he leaned up and kissed his wife on her lips. She surprised him in kissing him back; they rarely shared a bed nowadays in _that_ sense, and to find Sansa in his arms and undressed in just a matter of minutes after kissing her did shock Tyrion.

“Tyrion,” Sansa said between kisses. “Tyrion what if we have another child?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“There’s a war-”

“-As there was when Tyran, Robb and Alayne were made,” he began to kiss down her neck, and she tensed, goose flesh forming on her skin as she let out a soft moan. “And we’ll love them all the same.”

***

Robb’s sleeping wife lay beside her. Their four children were in chambers down the corridors. Robb and Grace and their children had the largest chambers. In two years time he would separate Ned and Lyanna from the other twins and give them their own chambers. Ned would have the finest weapons and Lyanna the finest gowns and instruments. Only the best for his firstborns.

But Serena and William on the other hand...

He did love Serena and William, but not in the same sense that he did with Ned and Lyanna. They were his first born children, Lyanna would be Ned’s heir if anything happened to him – Gods forbid. Most father’s took better interest in first born children than second born or third born. His own father shamed him for it.

“I heard William crying again,” Tyrion Lannister stated in the hall the following day. “There was no Septa called, not even a wet nurse. Robb, would it kill you to get out of bed and comfort your son when he cries?”

“I always go to Ned when he cries!”

“But not William.”

Robb glared at his father. “We’re not talking about this again; it’s getting very old and tedious.”

“You’re sending William to a second born daughter from the Eyrie with a slow mind?”

“Lysa Arryn is Robert Arryn’s _second_ child! Ned could inherit The Eyrie through that-”

“While you wed Lyanna to the heir of Dorne: Prince Artos and the Princess Daenerys to Ned, William is sent to a strange land-”

“-I’m sending my _daughter_ to Dorne the day she turns sixteen!” Robb shouted. “Do you think that will be _easy_ for me?”

“Gods forbid you have to send away your blessed Ned away for even a day! Would you marry Ned to the mentally challenged Lysa Arryn?”

“No, but-”

“-Exactly!” Tyrion stated, exasperatedly.

“But you married Alayne to Lucian: the future King.”

“You and Tyran both chose your wives. Do you think Tyran would neglect his second son?”

“He loves anything to come out of Queen Alyse’s cunt. Oh come on father! Why else do you think Tyran rode to King’s Landing if not to get between her legs? He’d marry her if she asked him and he wouldn’t need much persuading: marry a beautiful woman whom he’s loved since he was a little boy, become King and have handsome little Prince’s and Princess’! Why didn’t you want him to be _happy_?”

“I do want him to be happy-”

“-All Tyran ever wanted was to be able to love Alyse,” Robb heaved a sigh. “If you let them marry then there wouldn’t be a bloody war to fight and Selene Lannister wouldn’t have thrown herself from a tower window, Helena Tyrell wouldn’t be dead and you wouldn’t bother yourself about who I love more: Ned or William.”

“Do you think I love you any less than Tyran because he’s my first born?”

“Everybody knows your favourite is Alayne; that’s why you married her to Lucian.”

“Then if I claim to love Alayne more than you, did I not turn around on my horse when we left King’s Landing and ride back to her if not for the love I have for you?”

Robb scowled. “We never should have left her in King’s Landing on her own.”

“Well fucking done.”

“Then you should have persuaded me to turn back!”

“Your mother _begged_ you that evening to get her!”

“The only reason I left her behind was so that Tyran had a reason to leave the Queen’s cunt. If it wasn’t for protecting our sister, he’d stay and become her King. He’s honourable like that. If I had the offer I’d say _‘fuck you family’_ and marry her in a heartbeat and you know how much I love my family.”

“She will hate you when she gets to Winterfell.”

“She will hate _us_. Your precious daughter won’t hate you any less than she hates me; no body forced you to ride to Winterfell with me; you made that decision on your own.”

“I went because my wife wanted to go, that you and my Grandchildren were leaving. I believed that Alayne would be safe; she was the Queen, but I deluded myself on that before I realised the trauma your own mother went through put into that said position! I pray to the Gods that nothing terrible happened to Alayne and that she will forgive us all for leaving her.”

“She will forgive us; I’ll make her. Besides, when she gets to Winterfell she won’t be staying long; she’s going to wed Malor Greyjoy.”

“Over my dead body will she marry a _Greyjoy._ ”

“They demand her for peace; they will give us all their men and all their ships and support for Alayne. Nobody else trusts the Greyjoy’s-”

“-Because Theon Greyjoy betrayed Robb Stark: your own Uncle!”

“Theon Greyjoy is not his father. I’m hoping he has a bit of loyalty from his mother. With these new laws in place, more people need heirs. It’s a good match.”

***

Tyrion had always been opposed to violence, but on this case he deemed it necessary. With his short height, Tyrion was barely able to gather up the strength to slap his son around the face. That had certainly shocked Robb and he fell back onto the stone floor, clutching the side of the face. Tyrion climbed over the table and stood over his son, leaning close so that their faces were close.

“I’ll let your Ned and Lyanna marry Dornish cunts, and I’ll let you send William to the fucking Vale, but if you _dare_ sell _my_ daughter to traitorous scum, you won’t ever see your Ned again. I will send _him_ down to Dorne in place of Lyanna on the very day you decide to marry my daughter to a piece of shit. Are we understood?”

Shaking slightly, Robb shook his head. Tyrion straightened himself up, running a hand through his slightly thinning hair and stepped over his son, allowing him to scramble up.

“Go to your children,” Tyrion spat. “Tell Ned and Lyanna you’ve planned their lives for them, that they can’t fall in love and marry their loves like you did with their mother. And you go and tell William that he’s not good enough for anybody sane, because that’s what you’re doing looks like to me.”

“If it bothers you that much I’ll withdraw the betrothal from the Arryn’s.”

“I’m sure Littlefinger will love you for that.”

“I don’t give a _shit_ about Littlefinger. If he dares argue he’ll be faced with an abundance of Direwolves over his mountainous shadow cats and preying on all birds in sight. He does not make my decisions for me and neither do you.”

“And neither should you for your sister. She is not yours to bargain with, Robb. Alayne is my daughter and she shall marry whoever she chooses.”

“You ought to make sure she marries someone who will provide support to the family.”

 _Was he incredibly senile? Had he been kicked by a horse which Tyrion didn’t know about_? “I will make sure she marries a man who will be _good_ to her. Fuck what support he provides for the family and the men he brings. Did I ever force you into marriage? Was I mad because all Grace brought to the family was a couple of free nights at a shitty Inn she was raised in and two heirs for Winterfell? You need to learn hypocrisy, Robb; you’re very good at it.”

A cluster of servants began to group by the door. Robb pulled down his leather jerkin. “We shall discuss this further.”

“No we shall not,” Tyrion snapped. “This discussion is over. I’ve said all I have to say and so have _you_.”

Suddenly, Tyrion lost his appetite but took the flagon of wine that was usually served with breakfast back to his chambers.


	38. Content(ion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyran lies while Alayne continues to struggle.

Tyran went to Queen Alyse’s chambers the night after the coronation though it was early into the hours of the morning really but it made little difference if it was night or day; Tyran could not sleep. He was to leave with his household in only four hours, Gerion too was awake, helping to ready the children and the two-story wheelhouse where the children would be minded by Alayne and their Wet nurse Jasmine. Alayne had been awake too, Tyran had left her bathing Caster in the silver tub. She looked so content with Caster, it was the happiest he had ever seen her. Tyran wished that she could one day have children of her own; Alayne would be the greatest mother in the Seven Kingdoms. But alas she was not wed, her husband many weeks dead while she was unfit for marriage. Tyran had to stop feeling guilty about Alayne... He had to focus on another young woman.

The Lord of Casterly Rock admitted himself entrance past the guards who guarded the Queen’s door. It did not take a lot of time for them to allow him through, but they muttered that they would be cautious of his actions. Tyran did not plan to kill the Queen, even if he planned to he would not muster up the courage to do so, merely speak to her.

The Queen was not asleep, but propped up in bed, resting on her elbow, her night tables filled with candles. She wore nothing more than a pale and transparent nightdress with diamonds around the collar which reflected the candlelight which engulfed her.

“My lion,” she purred. “Have you come to pay respects to your Queen?”

“I don’t mean to respect you,” Tyran replied, crossing the room and climbed into bed with the Queen.

“You should respect women.”

He found it hard to stick to his stratagem as her soft hands ran their way up Tyran’s forearms and the way she smelled when she kissed her neck, caressed her hair and kissed her lips.

“I should respect my wife.”

“Your wife is dead.”

“You look very much alive to me.”

She drew back. He had been kissing down her collarbone, ready to kiss her breasts. Tyran was hard for her, she oft had that effect on him, but he would not allow her to get the better of him. He couldn’t afford to waste time.

“You’ll wed me?” She asked him in shock.

“Hmm,” he agreed. “On the morrow.”

“Why not now?”

He pulled back and looked at her face. “My Queen deserves better than a rushed wedding. I need to get you a gift.”

“No you don’t-”

“-Yes I do. Allow me and my household to ride south-”

“- _Your entire household_?”

“All of my household will need to come with me if I mean to celebrate this wedding properly. Your brother had a nice wedding, but I mean to make ours _magnificent._ We have waited long enough; we ought not to do it rushed. I have a few _surprises_ for you in the south.” _Like Dorne marching north to join my brother’s war._ “And it is a very big gift; it is going to need a lot of men to operate it.” She looked dazed, scanning his face for any sense of falsehood, but she kissed him which told the betrayer that she had not suspected anything. “Get some sleep; I know you will need it after tomorrow.”

“I love you,” she told him.

Nothing hurt Tyran as much as it did loving the enemy. “I love you too.”

***

Everybody was saddled and ready to leave the capitol while Alayne crossed the yard to ride in the wheelhouse. Ser Gerion met her across the yard as she struggled with her trunk of belongings. Everything she owned she held in a chestnut trunk in her arms. Her whole life was in that trunk, and what a heavy burdened life it was.

“You shouldn’t be handling heavy things, my Lady. Not in your condition, anyway.”

Alayne stood upright, putting her hands on her hips, flaring at Ser Gerion. “I am not with child. And if I was it isn’t something to laugh about.”

“Let me help you with this,” Gerion offered and Alayne moved aside and Gerion lifted her trunk with ease.

Alayne thought of all the agony she had gone through in them this past month: the hours she spent crying and in pain and Ser Deryn raping her. It was hard to think about the good times: Helena Tyrell sneaking into her bed in the early hours of the morning, giggling and gossiping with one another, Lucian sneaking into it too after an argument and kissing her and promising her a child and a happier marriage.

“It’ll all be over soon,” Gerion whispered putting a hand on Alayne’s back. As she always did when anybody touched her: too traumatised over the recent events to take human contact to mean a kind thing, she flinched away. Ser Gerion picked her trunk up again. “I’ll kill him before we go. Just say his name and I’ll shove a spear through his throat.”

“It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late to avenge somebody who is hurt. Tell me his name and I’ll make you content with life again.”

Did he really think she could be content with life again? She had been raped, beaten and bruised, verbally, mentally and physically assaulted in the space of a month, she lost her husband, a friend and a lover due to the vile Queen Alyse. Because of the Queen, Alayne didn’t think she would ever be content with life again, but it could improve if she saw Queen Alyse put through all the shit Alayne dealt with. But even that would hurt Alayne; she would not wish assault on any woman, regardless of what they had done to her. Alayne wished she could speak the man’s name and have Gerion murder him, but she feared that if she said his name he would come to her and take her.

***

“You hit our son?”

“ _Sansa_.”

“You hit our son?”

“ _Sansa_.”

He had not expected Robb to stay silent that Tyrion had hit him. Undoubtedly he had gone running to his mother, claiming that the attack was unprovoked and that he was a monster and a twisted little beast as everybody always said about him. But it was Robb who was the monster: merry little, hot headed Robb had on several occasions provoked his father, but never like this.

“He said it was because he tried to bargain Alayne to the Greyjoy’s.”

So he was honest. Tyrion held his cup of wine in the air, inclining it towards Sansa. “Alayne Greyjoy: married to the nephew of the man who betrayed your brother and mother. You must be so proud of our son. You _dare_ try and defend him. You _dare_.”

“Actually I hit him too,” Sansa admitted. “But it was more of a push.”

“I’m sure you’ll leave a scar.”

“But that’s not all why I pushed him,” Sansa admitted gravely. She went and lay beside Tyrion on the bed, and without asking, he poured her a cup of wine. “You’re right; he doesn’t love William.”

“Well now I just think you should have listened to me in the first place and you wouldn’t have had to maim my son.”

Sansa laughed quietly. “You’re funny when you’re drunk.”

“I hope I’m always funny. I strive to amuse you, my Lady.”

Lady Lannister let out a sigh. “Alayne and Tyran will be here soon. Maybe Tyran can give his younger brother a few points on how to be a better father.”

“Mhm, and maybe Robb could teach Tyran on how to stop being a stuck up little shit.” She laughed again, rolling onto her side, dropping wine onto the bed sheets as she did so. “Careful! There are starving people in Wintertown who would kill you if they saw you wasting valuable wine!”

“Oh it amuses me how you bad mouth our sons.”

“I talk shit about everyone.”

“Do you to me?”

Sighing, Tyrion put his cup on the floor. He cupped Sansa’s face in his hands and kissed her pale lips. “You’re my Lady. I love you.”

“Tyrion-”

“-And I accept that you will never love me, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, Sansa I have heard it all before. But I will continue to remain in this loveless marriage because of our children and because of how much I adore you. If I didn’t I’d go to the nearest brothel and fuck more whores than I have Grandchildren.”

She lowered her head. “Time can change things.”

“Can it turn back time? Can it go back in time to when my father didn’t give the orders to Walder Frey to kill your mother and brother? Could you love me if my family hadn’t done that to yours?” _I would be dead if that had not happened._

“I don’t know,” Sansa breathed.

The dwarf shrugged and put his wine to his lips. “What’s another failed marriage?”

She sat stiffly, her fingers clutching the bed sheets which they sat under. “Who was she? Your wife.”

“You don’t want to hear this story-”

“-Yes I do,” Sansa insisted.

“Why did you never mention it before?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted gravely. “Maybe I was scared she’d come back and take you away from your children. I thought that if I never mentioned her, you would have forgotten about her.”

 _Sweet girl, you never forget the first girl you fell in love with or the girl your father had raped before your eyes._ “Would you really like to hear about her?” His wife nodded. “It’s a grim story,” she arched her eyebrows and Tyrion let out a slow laugh. “But you have worse horrific stories to tell me.”

“You know all mine. It’s your turn to tell me.”

“I will warn you: it’s dismal and doesn’t have a happy ending.”

“Life never has happy endings. I think we’ve learned that by now.”

Tyrion agreed that they had, and began to tell Sansa about his first marriage.

***

His household were assembled in the yard. Tyran strode through the men on horseback, past the stable boys and squires whom helped assist men onto their stallions. Tyran held Caster close in his arms, his fingers locked together with his baby boy bouncing against his stomach. Tyran could not be taken very seriously with a babe against his abdomen, but by this point in his life, Tyran did not give much opinion to how other people considered him.

His squire had his horse saddled for him and he exchanged the dressed horse for his son, instructing his squire to give it to Jasmine. Tyran mounted his new, much younger stallion he called Victory, and reined it to the front of the spectacle. Gerion sat on his black horse at the front, waiting for him, his armour polished pristinely with his six-year-old son on a smaller horse to his right. Caster would be able to ride in a few years. Tyran would train him to be the best fighter the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen, as befitting to the nephew of the future King.

“We have a long ride to Winterfell,” Tyran shouted amongst the noise his men made. “We shall stop at sunset and ride again sunrise for the next week until we arrive at the docks where Dornish ships are awaiting us. Today, we make our first steps into war. Today, we fight for freedom against a Queen who would take our lands, kill our fathers and hurt our families. Do you stand with me or shall you ride alone?” A strident chant of that they would stand with their Lord rippled through the yard.

Tyran took a glance to Alyse’s chamber window. The curtains were closed. He had left her asleep and wrapped around his wolf skin cloak – a token to remember him by. He tried not to think of her face when she discovered that everybody in his household had abandoned King’s Landing and was not coming back for her with a gift to marry her with as he had said. But he had told the Queen that he loved her and he would see her soon. He would see Alyse soon, alive or dead, but either way with a cold sword pointed at her and her life on the line.

“Are _you_ ready?” Gerion asked his liege Lord.

“I’ll have to be.”

***

They set up camp at sunset as Tyran said they would. They were a good one hundred miles from King’s Landing. It had taken all day to ride there; there was not a chance a Baratheon host could find them in the night. More importantly to Alayne, Ser Deryn could not find her here.

Her tent was erected beside her brother’s and Ser Gerion’s. She was trapped between them both with two guards placed outside her tent at all the times. They were nice enough: boys of her own age who she was very certain preferred each other’s company than to females. They would not stare at her as she changed or follow her around camp. She gave them permission to enter her tent when she was not present and eat the food and drink the wine that she left. They were both distant cousins from the Lannister line: Tyran and hers fourth cousins from an Aunt who remarried. They still carried the name Lannister as proudly as she did and both carried Tyran’s banner as they rode.

For three days, Gerion Lannister rode beside her – _closely_ beside her. She was not fond of the close proximity between them, their legs brushing up against each other when their horses would attract one another but it was better than being trapped in the wheelhouse. Every touch from another person reminded her of the bruises left by Ser Deryn. She wished she did not see Deryn in every person who touched or embraced her. If she remarried, she would disappoint her husband and her family. She would need to overcome her fear before they reached Winterfell.

She attempted to converse with more people: with Gerion as she rode and Jasmine the wet nurse as she dressed her in the mornings as her temporary handmaiden. She would talk with the two boys who guarded her tent, offering them to sit watch inside her tent when it rained instead of being forced to stand outside. Everybody was kind enough to her: the other Lords and Ladies invited her to sup or break their fast with them. Initially, she had declined, but by the fourth day of riding the loneliness overcame her and she found herself supping with Lord Serrett and his family.

“I hear the Serrett’s are boring cunts,” Gerion claimed.

He had been waiting outside the Serrett’s tent for her to mock them as he did with every other house that rode with them. Alayne could withstand it until he began to follow her around camp. Lucian used to do that with her when she was younger and before they were betrothed, and he would tell her how beautiful she was however she looked. Alayne missed him terribly, she had loved her husband but never got the opportunity to tell him.

“Why do you keep following me, Ser?” Alayne asked, exasperated.

“I think I must be in love with you.”

Alayne laughed, pulling a pin out of her hair that Jasmine had used to keep it in place. When she withdrew it, her auburn curls tumbled down her back. She felt more comfortable without being dressed up, like she didn’t have to impress anybody.

“There’s still time,” Gerion said in an undertone, “I can still go back to King’s Landing and murder the fucker who raped you.”

“No thank you,” Alayne declined. “Someone will kill him one day when we take King’s Landing.”

“I would make sure it was me if you gave me his name.”

“He would kill you.”

“How could he kill me if he’s already dead? Please Alayne, I want to help you.”

“ _Why_?”

He answered her. Clearly his statement about him loving her had been true. He seized Lady Alayne, cupping her face in his hands and pulled her close to him and kissed her. Alayne might have been flattered by this: a handsome, strong young knight kissing her underneath the starlight, but that Alayne Lannister had lived in the keep as a young girl singing in the sept. This Alayne Lannister was a young woman and the only song she knew was the screams and cries she harmonised for Ser Deryn.

She struggled under his grasp, flailing around but he continue to kiss her. Eventually, he gave way, and Alayne kicked him where she used to kick Robb when he was mean to her, which caused Ser Gerion to double over, clutching his cock in pain and Alayne stumbled towards him. She extended her arm and punched Ser Gerion round the face, and he toppled sideways. A rush of adrenaline succumbed Alayne: hitting Gerion let her release her anger in a way that did not result in her probable drowning. So she hit him again, and again, and again until he was on the floor and she began to kick him, screaming at him. Men began to gather round, unsure what to do until a pair of arms grabbed her around her stomach and pulled her away from Ser Gerion. She screamed louder.

“STOP IT! DON’T HURT ME! LET GO OF ME!” She screamed. “I DON’T KNOW WHERE HE IS! I’M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH!”

She was thrown to the ground. Alayne expected the worst but it did not happen. It was only her brother standing over her, looking more angry than concern, his temper rising.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Tyran bellowed. “HE IS FAMILY!”

 _It is always my fault._ Alayne shook vigorously, burying her face in her hands. Her hands clenched the muddy grass, her breathing quickened and she felt two men lift her from the ground. She did not have the energy to scream anymore or to battle. _Let me die. I should have died in the bath. Let me die._

But Alayne did not die. She awoke early the following morn in her own bed. The sun streaked through the tent, blinding Alayne when she opened her eyes. She shuffled in bed, attempting to get herself away from the sunlight when she saw a figure sat beside her bed. It was Ser Gerion: battered and bruised and with stitches on his right cheek. For a moment she was frightened what sort of monster would do that to him, if he had gone after Ser Deryn to try and kill him for her until she remembered her outburst that night and realised that the monster who attacked her brother’s closest friend was herself.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Gerion confessed.

“I shouldn’t have beaten you.”

“You had every right,” Gerion stated. “You’re still not over what that man did to you. I know you’re frightened it will happen again; I know that every time you flinch when somebody touches you and when you almost killed me last night and screamed when your brother held you. It’s not right to kiss you when you’re like this. I don’t know why I did it.”

Alayne only shook her head and sat up in bed. “How bad are your cuts?”

“Fuck my cuts. I think your mental state is more important than my cuts. Anyway, Tyran’s agreed we’ll stay here the day and ride early on the morrow. If you want-”

“-No,” Alayne claimed. “I don’t want you to kill him.”

“Did he rape you for information about Robb?” She nodded. “What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t know _anything_ ,” Alayne spat. “That’s why he did it! He was always told to keep an eye on me, make sure I didn’t try and kill myself or throw myself out a window or try and escape. And then he would come to my chambers at any time in the day, seize me, grunting into my ear as he raped me demanding to know where my brother was. He knew I didn’t know anything, he’s just a sick fuck who enjoyed it.”

Gerion scoffed. “Deryn deserves a fate worse than death.”

“How did you-”

“-I asked a few Baratheon men while the coronation celebration happened,” Gerion said coolly, “I asked them who guarded your room when they were extremely inebriated, and they all enlightened me it was Ser Deryn.”

“If you knew all along, then why did you keep asking me?”

“Because I wanted to hear you say his name before I murdered him. Do you want me to kill him?”

“ _No_ ,” Alayne insisted. “Gerion I don’t want to remember what happened. You keep mentioning it only makes it worse. I just want to forget about it, _please_.”

“It may provide you with closure.”

“Gerion, what if I have his child inside me?”

He frowned. “Is this what you’ve been afraid of?”

She had been raped dozens of times by the same man for one month. There was a high possibility that she carried his babe inside of her. Alayne didn’t know what to do; she was a fifteen-year-old girl, widowed and endured most trauma than most girl’s her age ever heard about.

“You could get rid of it.”

“But it’s a babe.”

“It’s _his_ babe. Do you want to look at your son or daughter and every time you do be reminded what that man did to you? When was the last – I mean when are you expected to-”

For the first time in a very long time, Alayne started to laugh. Even Gerion seemed surprised that he had been capable of making Alayne laugh, even if it was at his own expense of awkwardness.

“Last week.”

“And you haven’t – I mean – there’s no...”

She shook her head. “What do I do?”

Gerion pondered the question for a little while. As he did, Alayne put a hand on her stomach. She wondered how long the babe she had inside her had been there for. A week? Two weeks? Since the very beginning?

“But what if it’s Lucian’s?” She asked hopefully

“The King was sick, you wouldn’t have been able to-”

“-When you’re dying and you’re frightened, you’ll do anything for some comfort. What if I kill Lucian’s babe?”

“What is there more of a chance of: killing Lucian’s babe or killing Deryn’s?” _Deryn’s_ but Gerion knew the answer to that already. “Tyran says we’re to stay at a castle the day before we set voyage for Winterfell. They’ll have a Maester there and I’ll see if I can find you some moon tea. It’s the least I can do for last night.”

Gerion Lannister was incredibly kind: much more than she had initially given him credit for. He was not the bold, arrogant and handsome knight who fathered three bastards as she was first lead to believe, but a young man with morals and respect and had great concern for the people that he loved: Alayne and Tyran without doubt.

“Can I take your hand?”

They sounded like young children, courting each other for the first time. She accepted Gerion’s proposition and slowly, he took her hand. Alayne did not find herself flooded with the bad memories that haunted her, but with softness that Ser Gerion provided her with.

Alayne didn’t know if she would ever feel safe again, if she could go back to being the little girl who wished for nothing more than to have power and to have a handsome husband and beautiful children. If taking the hand of a distant relative gave Alayne some state of mind, she would use it. She could play men like harps, Gerion was in love with her and he was the handsome husband she had dreamed about, but when she looked at Gerion all she saw was a man who was trapped in his life and love for Alayne which could never be returned. Alayne ought to have felt guilty for that: leading a man on with no hopes for a future on her part. But she did still have a future and she would be forced to wed eventually to a man who would not understand her and offer her comfort Gerion did, and that thought terrified her.

***

Tyran had been given his ship _Alyse_ when he was a very young boy on the same day that Lucian had been given his. The two boys had played on their ships for weeks, taking anybody with them and to show their ships to them. Tommen had enjoyed playing with the two boys the most on the ships. He had given Tyran brief lessons on how to sail a ship. It came in use almost a decade later when Tyran returned to the ship _Alyse_ he had not seen in perhaps the same amount of time ago as he had been gifted it. He ran his hand over the woodwork, putting his hand on the silver, reflective lion’s head and spun the wheel while it was still in dock.

“Are you ready to sail, my Lord?” Asked the captain as they stood at the wheel.

“Is my sister on the boat? And Gerion and our sons?”

“Aye, my Lord.”

“Then I am ready to sail.”

The captain shouted something in Braavosi to his crew and they began to row out of the dock. Tyran went to stand at the bow of the boat, clutching onto the side and watching his ship sail through the sea. They would be on the boat for a week until they reached Deepwood Motte and take the day ride to Winterfell the following morn. It would be a long voyage, and everybody prayed for good weather that morning. The sea was pleasantly calm, churning against the bottom of the boat he felt cold splashes of water beat against his face. Twenty over boats sailed around them, each carrying one thousand men. The one Tyran was in contained less than one hundred, including the crew. He was the Lord of Casterly Rock after all; he could not share his boat with other men. He could not share _Alyse_ with other men.

“It’s nice out here, isn’t it?” His sister came to his side, wrapped in a wolf skin fur coat.

“Yes,” Tyran agreed. “I am sorry for what happened to you.”

His sister stared out across the empty vast of the shore and exhaled deeply. “It’s in the past.”

“Then why did you attack Gerion the other night?”

“I don’t know,” his sister lied.

“I can help you.”

“No one can help me,” she answered sullenly. She turned around and pulled herself so she perched on the side of the boat. Tyran edged closer to her in case she fell. “I’m like ice: broken and deadly.”

“You are not deadly.”

She scoffed, wrapping her arms around her body. “I never thought so either.”

“You should go back to your cabin,” suggested her older brother.

“I’m not tired.”

“Or could you go and make sure Caster hasn’t fallen overboard?”

“It must be hard for you to know that the next time you see Alyse you’ll be on opposite sides of the throne room and within seconds she’ll be murdered.”

He had tried not to think about Alyse and had succeeded for perhaps twenty minutes. “I never told you how sorry I was to hear about Lucian.”

“Alyse murdered him-”

“-You don’t know that.”

Alayne let out a loud, raspy scream, throwing her hands up in the air. “Even now she’s still your precious little Princess. Tyran, I’m telling you she _murdered_ our King: my husband – your brother! She told me she strangled Helena Tyrell to death and she was your betrothed! It wouldn’t surprise me if she was the one who poisoned Joffrey’s wine.”

“Do not be ridiculous.”

“You know it was her. I know you do. But to admit it is to admit that she has flaws, and she’s so fucking _perfect_ in your eyes that you’re blind to what she’s done. What if I tell you that she gave the orders to have me starved, confined me to my chambers and sent guards to _beat_ information out of me about Robb.”

“Do not _lie_ to me, Alayne!”

Alayne stared at him incredulously before hoisting up her skirts. Tyran looked away, embarrassed, until Alayne grabbed his shoulder and forced him to look at her. Her thighs were covered in purple bruises. She threw down her gown in disgust.

“Do you think I would lie about this?”

He did not think Alayne would lie about being beaten – how else would she have gotten those bruises? It would explain her attack on Gerion, perhaps he had surprised her or grabbed her and she had reacted by beating him. But Tyran could not believe that this was Alyse’s doing. He could not speak the words. He could not agree on his sister.

“Go and check on my son,” Tyran said in a low voice.

“Of course, my Lord,” replied his sister sardonically.

***

All Alyse had ever wanted was to be Queen, but how could she be Queen without a King? She could have wed Tyran last week – she could have wed him as soon as his Grandfather had died, but he had insisted on going to Casterly Rock and wedding some little whore who gave him a plump little son. He had promised her a gift and abandoned her. Alyse would give him a gift: she would give him his brother’s head and his mother’s and his father’s. He should have murdered them when she had the chance. She should have murdered everybody until it was just her and Tyran, sat on the Iron Throne, surrounded by skeletons and corpses in each other’s nakedness.

“Your Grace,” her Grandmother Cersei approached her from the side where the small council chambers were. Alyse never attended those; her father had told her how tiresome they were and uninformative. She left it to her Master’s and to Mace Tyrell whom she had no choice but to leave as Hand of the King. “Lord Tyrell says you wished to speak to me.”

“Yes I did,” Alyse agreed. She descended the steps of the Iron Throne, her dark gown trailing behind her. “You are my father’s mother and he loved you very dearly, but you are a hazard to the Realm.”

“Your Grace?”

She smiled at her Grandmother sweetly, taking her hand and kissing it. Alyse could be ever so manipulative when she needed to be, and she had rehearsed the words she would say to her Grandmother for a very, very long time.

“I am going to give you one week to leave Westeros. You have outlived all three of your children and two of your Grandchildren. I cannot help but see that as more than a coincidence. So I want you gone from the country so that you cannot damage the work I have done here.”

“You mean the work _I_ have done here, your Grace.”

***

_“Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”_

Cersei remembered those words. She remembered them like Maggy the Frog had spoken to her yesterday. Margaery she had thought would be the Queen, not her Granddaughter. Not her dearest Joffrey’s daughter.

But it would make sense. From the moment that Alyse had been born, she had preoccupied Joff’s thoughts. She had taken his time and eventually his love. He cast aside his mother for his daughter, sometimes going days without speaking to her. Here she was: Alyse Baratheon, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, taking her city, her power and name.

“You fucked your brother. My father was the product of your _disgusting_ relationship. By right, Stannis should have been King, but my father was brave and powerful and a good King. He had best reason to be King as I do to be Queen. You fucked your brother and disgraced House Lannister and the realm. I cannot stand for a fat, vile, drunken whore at my court. Father may have tolerated you, as did Lucian who was weak and didn’t know about your repugnant relationship with your brother and lover.”

“If what you say is true, you have no claim to the throne.”

It came as a shock to Cersei when Alyse slapped her. Cersei reacted, clutching the side of her face which stung like acid. Her Granddaughter had a sharper aim than Robert ever did.

“I shall wear this as a badge of honour.”

“Wear it out of Westeros,” Alyse hissed. “I don’t care where you go as long as you are gone. Out of my sight and out of my kingdom. I will not have you murder me as you murdered your children.”

Cersei laughed. “You are insane.”

“Am I?” Alayne laughed. “Prince Rhaegar was obsessed with the idea of the Prince who was Promised, believing it to be his own Prince Aegon. He was wrong. There was never a _Prince_ , but a Princess: me.”

 _Gods_ , Cersei thought apprehensively. _The girl has gone mad._ She had lost her mind. Nobody had seen it. Whispers had been spread around court but it was never truly acknowledged. The Queen was mad. She was truly senile.

“I never murdered my children.”

“ _You_ poisoned Joffrey. _You_ sent men to murder Myrcella and Tommen. You pushed mother under the ice! It was never the plague that killed Alysanne: you filled her with venom and you gave my brother poison too! They say poison is a woman’s weapon! It is yours!” She let out a hysterical laugh. “YOU KILLED THEM!”

Cersei would have slapped Alyse too if she did not fear the reaction the Queen would have on her. Instead, Cersei seized Alyse by the shoulders and shook her.

“I know you are saddened by the deaths of your mother and father, sister and brother, but it was not me who killed them. I loved them – I loved them all. Could you ever imagine me murdering my son?”

“You stopped being Queen Regent when father wed mother. When father died, you instantly became Lucian’s Queen Regent, but you poisoned him because work was getting too hard for you in your old age and physique so you left the hard work to me. _Me_! A grieving member of a destroyed family! I should have your head!”

Cersei refused to die. She would not die at the hands of a sickly girl. So she attempted to reason with her, which only resulted with Lady Cersei being struck again.

“I’ll leave,” Cersei said coolly, “and I’ll give you my luck to try and run this shit of a country without me.”

“I will!”

Cersei lashed her body and stormed through the door, her arms swinging at her sides and she pushed into the doors with all her weight, hitting the guards who stood by the grand gates every day. It did not take long to reach her chambers. She crossed the keep and climbed up the staircase to her chambers. She would need to figure out what to do. She would not allow Alyse to turn Westeros back to the times of Aerys Targaryen. She would not let Joff’s name become abominated.

She got to her chambers and slammed the oak doors behind them. Cersei rested against them. The door was cold against her skin. The former Queen felt like crying, _you are a lioness. Lionesses do not shy at the sight of trouble. They stand and fight and protect their pride._ That was what she would do: protect House Lannister. To protect House Lannister, she would go to Casterly Rock with the remaining men and take what was so precious to Lord Tyran. Cersei beamed at the prospect and threw her head back.

Something caught her eye.

She returned her gaze to it. Her eye sight had deteriorated in her age, but she knew this person; he was the first person she had ever seen much before she had entered the world through her mother. But Cersei could scarcely believe it.

“Jaime.”


	39. Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two families reunite over death.

The night was cold: a wind rustled through her skirts as she gazed out the window. The singers that her Granddaughter was so fond of played their harps and instruments and sung their songs. She could hear their voices from her chambers: their sounds echoed throughout the castle but it was the first time Cersei had ever listened to them. Without much attention, they were nice to listen to but focus on them they resembled the cries of squawking animals.

Cersei drained the last dregs of her wine and then promptly filled her goblet with the crimson liquid. She drunk more frequently, and ate more also. The smell was empowering: sickly and strong all at the same time. She took a longing gulp and then held it as her side for a while, continuing to gaze over the shores of Blackwater Bay: watching the waves crash against the rocks, the boats beat against the tide and the shouts of fishermen to cast their nets down.

She pretended to ignore her brother, but found it impossible. She had not seen him since Tommen died. He had not come back to her but here he was. The man she loved was tall and handsome with sunlight in his hair, but the hair was thinning and turning to grey like her own. They had once been so beautiful, but now they looked drab.

“Happy name day, sweet sister.”

She had long forgotten the day of her nameday. It was nothing to celebrate. Just another day.

“Would you like some wine?”

“No.”

 _More for me._ She filled up her cup with a smile and turned around to her twin brother. “Why are you here?”

“For you.”

Those words might have made her dizzy with love, but they no longer did. They were just words. He never meant them. How could he expect Cersei to accept him again after leaving her so recurrent? She was not the woman she once was. She was wiser, older and learned from mistakes and experiences for what she hoped were the better. Jaime was both experience and mistake. She would not allow the young girl in her to show. She wouldn’t give Jaime the satisfaction.

“You’re many years too late, brother.”

Jaime stared at her uncertainly. “I loved you once.”

“Then you’re a fool for loving me,” she found herself laughing. “Oh you _fool,_ Jaime Lannister, you absolute _fool_.”

“I left while I could. You are the fool for not leaving sooner. You should have gone to Casterly Rock while it was still safe-”

“-And keep the Lord’s chair warm for my repulsive nephew?”

“A nephew who is at war with you, Cersei. What do you have left here for you? Your children are dead. Father is dead. _You_ are the fool for not leaving sooner.”

She eyed him. Cersei looked into her younger brother’s eyes: the same clear green that hers were. They had been born moments apart: Jaime clutching at Cersei as they entered the world. She had loved him from her first breath, and would love him from her last. Tentatively, he touched her cheek.

“And you expect me to go with you?”

Violently, Jaime grabbed her wrist. She may have whimpered or begged him to stop if she was a weaker woman, but she was not. She was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, the former Queen Regent of the Realm and before her stood Jaime Lannister: her twin brother, her flesh and blood. Her brother, _my lover._

“Unhand me at once,” Cersei spat. “Before you leave with one less hand.”

He did not release Cersei like she warned him to. “You’ve always been a spiteful bitch.”

“And you have always loved me for it. Now unhand me, brother.”

“I always loved you more than you ever loved me. While I was away – while I was held captive by the Stark’s – you were fucking other men without a second thought to me but why should I be surprised? Cersei Lannister is Cersei Lannister. Cersei Lannister loves Cersei Lannister. You never loved me. You never loved another human in your life.”

Seething: “I loved our children. I _love_ our children.”

“All of which are dead because of you.”

He released her wrist too little too late which gave Cersei opportune to draw back her wrist and slap her outspoken brother. She had slapped him before but never had it given her more satisfaction than this as she watched him place his fingertips against his dry lips and taste the blood she took from him. Then she saw her brother look at her with all the hatred in the world. It was not an uncommon sight.

He grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her face towards him. His breath was hot and sticky on her face, but she missed the feel of him beside her. She clutched at his leather bodice, ridding any distance between them and crashed her lips to his.

“Hush, my brother. My sweet Jaime...”

“Cersei, we must...”

She fell down to the floor, her hands scraping against the stone tower as if clawing for an escape. Jaime dropped to his knees after seeing the sight and held Cersei in his arms. She battered her bloody and sore hands against him, but he held her back.

“You turn up here with no word. Do you really think I shall let you do this to me again?” He grabbed a fistful of her golden hair, pulling her head back viciously. Cersei wanted to scream, but she was better than that – too proud to scream; too proud to show her weakness that was Jaime. “You’re a different man than when you left the Red Keep oh so many years ago without as much as a second glance to me, to Joffrey or Tommen. You ran off with that Tarth _bitch_. She can have you.”

Jaime smacked his sister, his knuckle making contact with her padded chin. This time she did groan with pain, but it would not stop her.

“I rode better looking horses than her. What is it that she had that I don’t have? Lower standards. She might take a cripple with one hand to her bed but I shall not. Was it her that would warm your bed at night rather than tavern wenches and farmer’s wives? Or do you perhaps like women who are stronger than you, can hold you down and ride you like a mule?”

Forcefully, he grabbed and shook her by her shoulders, screaming in her face. “BRIENNE! HER NAME IS _BRIENNE_.”

“I know her name,” said Cersei coolly.

“You cannot _speak it._ You have no right.”

“No right,” Cersei chuckled. “Brienne of Tarth. Does it bother you if I speak your lover’s name? Brienne of Tarth. Brienne of Tarth.”

Before Cersei could comprehend the matter, she was gasping the breath and desperately grasping the cold stone floor for some strength but she found none, only Jaime’s grubby fingernails digging into her skin, her golden neckpiece drawing blood as her twin laughed manically at her.

_“The valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”_

It was not Jaime. It should never have been Jaime. It was not Jaime she should have fallen in love with. It should never have been Jaime. But life was never simple, never decided. Cersei reflected this as she struggled for breath. Struggled for air. Struggled for her life.

Cersei died with his name on her lips. It was as if the Gods themselves had planned it.

***

When a letter from Kevan Lannister to Tyrion Lannister had reached King’s Landing, he mulled it over quietly and pensively.

“Cersei’s dead,” announced Lord Tyrion in a sullen voice.

Their family had all been together that breakfast: Robb held Ned on his lap, Grace held Serena, Alayne sat with William and Sansa held Lyanna. Rickon sat alone at the head of the table. Tyrion did not like to be in the company of Robb, particularly when his children were present, but it was terrible of him to circumvent his own son when his daughter was the other side of the country.

“She was murdered: strangled to death Kevan writes and so the Maesters believe. Nobody has found her killer.”

Tyrion looked around the table and wondered what exactly this war was even about.

***

Arya Stark looked across the destruction of the Twins. The two great towers roared with flames. Arya could feel the heat from them. The bodies of the Frey’s lay before her, their limbs spelled out, _THE NORTH REMEMBERS._ Her fourteen-year-old son had the idea of doing that and cut the limbs off himself with the help of his mother. It had not taken much for the two of them to poison the wine and food of the Frey’s, pull them from their castle, cut their limbs and set their holdfast on fire. Compared to what Arya had done in the past, this was like riding a horse for the first time.

“What do we do now, mother?”

Arya looked at her son, and took his arm. “Stand away from the fire, Jon.” He took a step back and repeated his question. “We shall sleep and make for Winterfell.”

Sansa should be there now with her son and heir. The boy – if she calculated correctly by the moons – should have turned six-and-ten two moons ago. Arya would have left Braavos earlier if not for a decent excuse. She had agreed to go on the terms that she would pay her debt to Arianne Martell and murder Cersei Lannister, but the leaders of the Faceless men had never given her a time of how long she had to be. It might take months to murder Queen Cersei Lannister, perhaps even years. They would not know if she went to Winterfell first; nobody was following her. She had shaken every traces of a spy from her.

Jon and she settled by a fire a distance away from the Twins. Jon slept the night while Arya lay away, resting by the trees, her son sleeping softly beside her. She listened to the sound of his rugged breath and fetched him water when he was thirsty. Arya never thought she would be so dependent on another person as she was with her son.

***

 _Alyse_ never reached Deepwood Motte. The winds were too violent and the seas too treacherous. They lasted three days on the ship before docking at the seas near The Twins. Sailing to The Twins saved them a fortnight of riding and it was a thrill to reach dry land, the feeling of solid ground underneath her feet felt alien to Alayne, but she enjoyed the stability it provided her with. She did not particularly enjoy sailing; she was often sick and her head throbbed, but she realised that was not due to the sea.

They would not stay at The Twins castle. They pitched their tents near the castle where Robb Stark and his men had been murdered. Tyran was fortunate that their ships docked in the north, they would not have to cross the bridge.

Alayne changed for bed in her tent. It was small, but she did not wish to have a spacious tent. She sat down on the wooden chair beside her bed; she could not sleep. She _would_ not sleep. She placed a hand on her stomach and wondered if sending Gerion to the castle where his father raped his mother, where Alayne’s Uncle Robb and Grandmother and all their men were murdered, was a good idea so that she could kill the babe that grew inside her.

Gerion entered her tent with a small vial of liquid pressed between his thumb and fore-finger.

“Apparently it tastes like shit. Do you want to pour it in wine?”

“No.” She pulled the cork off the vile and lifted it to her nose. It did smell of shit. “Better to get it over and done with, right?”

He agreed with her. Holding her nose, Alayne put the vial to her lips. She wrenched her eyes closed, tilted her head back and drunk from the vial so quickly that before she could taste the liquid, she had already drained the bottle. She keeled over, close to emptying her stomach lining but did not, and returned to sit on the chair.

“Does it taste as bad as it smells?”

Alayne nodded. “Worse.”

“I’ll stay with you the night,” Gerion told her. He pulled up the second chair from around the table and moved it opposite Alayne. Their knees were almost touching each other. “What shall we do to pass the time?”

“How soon until dawn?”

“All night. We’ll be at Winterfell in a week, you’ll see your mother and father again.”

 _As I bleed out their Grandchild._ “Do you think I’m terrible for doing this?”

“You are not to blame for this, Alayne.”

She said nothing of that. “I feel as if I am in your debt. For beating you, for giving me the poison to kill the babe inside me and for lying to Tyran. I don’t know what I can do to repay you.”

“Nothing,” Gerion said, “you can do nothing to repay me.”

She reached across his lap and took his hand. “In another life, I might fall in love with you. Robb will marry me to some high Lord to gain their favour when I reach Winterfell. A man who will not know what I have gone through and will not care so long as he gets to fuck me,” she swallowed nervously. “If that happens, tell them you’ll wed me.”

Gerion laughed. “Alayne-”

“Gerion, I cannot wed. I cannot look at a man and share his bed and wake up terrified of what he might do. He would never understand. Only you do.”

“I can’t understand what you’ve gone through, but your family would never let us wed! I’m too low born-”

“-You’re Tyran’s friend!”

“I’m his _advisor_. What am I, Alayne? I am the son of Tywin Lannister’s bastard niece. My mother was raped by a Frey. I kill people for gold. I have three bastard sons. Does that sound like an eligible man for a former Queen and the sister to the Wardens of the North and West?”

She was and always will be the sister to the Wardens of the North and West: a pawn to be played with and sold to whichever man Robb and Tyran chose. Gerion was correct; they would not consent to a marriage between them. Alayne did not love Gerion, she could not persuade them through love, only that she felt safe around him and she trusted him.

“Then I shall become a Silent Sister.”

Gerion started to laugh. “I don’t believe the life of the Silent Sisters is for you. If it comes to them forcing you into marriage... Then I’ll ask for your hand. Your brother promises me Highgarden when the Tyrell’s fall with the Baratheon’s. He would not object to the Lord of Highgarden.”

“Your son’s would be so happy. I would be a good mother to them.”

“I dare say you will.”

Alayne could imagine herself living in the south. She would share Gerion’s chambers and eventually his bed. Alayne could see herself falling in love with him, too. She imagined balls at Highgarden, visiting her family around Westeros and travelling with her new family. The prospect made her giddy. She would become a wife and a mother and a powerful Lady if she married Gerion and he was given Highgarden. Her family might even allow it.

“Promise me, Gerion,” Alayne said, “promise me you won’t let them wed me to anyone else but you.”

He kissed her hand. She did not feel frightened of Gerion Lannister anymore. “Did you feel like this when you married King Lucian?” She pulled her hand away. “We couldn’t not talk about him.”

“I’d rather we didn’t.”

“Did you love him?”

Alayne nodded. “Only after he died.”

“I would tell you everyday how much I love you,” Gerion whispered. “And how beautiful you are and how I am the most fortunate man in Westeros - _fuck Westeros –_ in the Known World to have married Alayne Lannister.”

She felt like the little girl who dreamed of handsome Knights and becoming Queen and living in a castle on cakes and chocolates and pies and sweets. She would not be given her sickly castle, but sweet and sunny Highgarden maybe. It might never come true, but she could dream.

There quiet little world was interrupted at dawn by Tyran. The night had taken so long, Alayne in constant pain: sick and bleeding more than she ever had done on her moon blood.

“You should see this.”

***

At dawn they broke their fast and returned to the Twin’s. A camp had settled already: a camp of hundreds of tents: the Lannister gold and crimson colours. Arya pulled her son behind a tree and watched them closely. Sansa could be there, but so could Cersei Lannister. She did not want to approach the camp before she knew who was there.

Alas, Arya did so with her son in her heels. They skirted behind tents and hid in one close to where the supposed Lord was stood with his advisors and a young girl. A smile crept onto Arya’s face.

“Do you see the girl?” Arya whispered to her son as they peeked between the curtains of the tent. “That is your cousin: my sister Sansa’s daughter.”

The vibrant red hair of her mother and sister was easily distinguishable. Jon looked delighted of the safety he thought they might have of finding family, but Arya did not know what the girl was like, if she was more a Lannister than Sansa Stark it could prove an issue.

“This saved Robb a job,” announced the golden haired boy who stood with his hand on his hips, staring at the fire. “But how do we cross when we come back to King’s Landing?”

“We take the ship,” said the boy who looked similar to the aforementioned boy. “And sail past the Twins.”

“The waters are dangerous,” pointed out the boy.

“Scared of krakens are we Lord Tyran?”

 _Tyran._ It was Sansa’s son and Sansa’s daughter. Arya had not been so close to family in years. With Sansa she had murdered the King and had to leave quickly. How Arya would have loved to say farewell to her sister properly, make up for the years they had missed. Perhaps Arya would not regain the time she missed with her sister, but she could give it to her children.

Arya pulled the curtains of the tent apart and walked to the three people stood by the river. All three of them turned around as Arya and Jon approached them. Lord Tyran put a hand on his pommel, as did the other boy, except he put an arm in front of her niece.

“Who are you?” Lord Tyran demanded.

Arya smiled. “Do you like my artwork?”

“This was you?” Lord Tyran suspected. “The bodies as well?”

“The bodies were Jon’s idea,” Arya smiled proudly. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Why would I?”

“Because I know who you are: Tyran Lannister. Your father is Tyrion Lannister and your mother is Sansa Stark.”

“Sansa _Lannister_. How do you know who I am?”

“Because your mother is Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Arya enjoyed the look of terror on his face; it reminded her so of when Bran had gotten into trouble with her mother all those years ago. She didn’t want it so end. “I am _Arya_ Stark of Winterfell.”

“How do we have any proof of who you are?” Asked Tyran’s friend who stood protecting his Lord’s little sister. “Arya Stark is dead.”

“Many men have tried to kill me but every man has failed which is why I stand here today. King Joffrey once tried to kill me but instead I murdered him at his wedding feast: I poisoned him.”

“That is true,” stated Sansa’s daughter. “She was serving Joffrey his wine.”

“You have my gratitude for killing the King but it does not make me believe you are Arya Stark. If you are indeed Arya Stark, you have a place at our household. When we get to Winterfell and my mother determines that you are not her believed dead sister, then you shall be hanged.”

“Your threats do not faze me,” Arya chuckled. “The same threats have been made to me as I have made the same. You will find me to be Arya Stark when your mother runs to me rather than you when we ride into the yard of Winterfell. And you could not hang me; I cannot be killed. _Valar Morghulis_.”

“Valar Dohaeris,” returned Lord Tyran’s companion. “I believe her to be Arya Stark. I am Ser Gerion of House Lannister.”

“Arya of House Stark. This is my son: Jon.”

“Has he no last name?”

Arya shook her head. “My son does not have a father.”

“Every child has a father.”

“And who is yours?”

Gerion Lannister took a sharp intake of breath and eyed Jon. “How old is he?”

“Fourteen.”

“Is he a squire?”

“I can answer for myself,” interrupted Jon. “No I am _not_ a squire.”

“Fourteen...” Tyran Lannister mused. “Can you fight with a sword?”

“Better than anyone in Braavos.”

“We are not in Braavos anymore,” Tyran stated. “You are in the north: the land my younger brother owns. If your mother is truly Arya Stark, that makes you my cousin. You shall squire for me in battle, Jon. When the time comes-”

“-I don’t want to be a squire, I want to fight.”

“-When the time comes and you prove yourself in battle, you can become a knight yourself. If you are truly as good of a fighter as you claim to be, then you are far too valuable to lose. Four-and-ten is too young to fight this battle. Stick to decorating with corpses for the time being and ride with the knights later.”

Her son was pissed off, as he had a right to do so. Arya herself was trained as a Faceless Man at fourteen, Robb Stark led men into battle at fourteen. Jon Snow became a man of the Night’s Watch at fourteen.

“My son can fight better than most men double his age; how else were we able to burn The Twins and decapitate their men?”

“She has a point,” Gerion claimed.

Tyran Lannister frowned. “We shall see how good you are with a sword when you are proved to be who you both claim to be. Do you have your own sword?”

Proudly, Jon unsheathed the Valyrian Steel sword he had hanging from his belt. He held it up to his cousin, the sun bouncing from the metal. “Mother took it from Joffrey before she killed him. It’s Valyrian Steel. I called it _Murder._ ”

“Murder,” Tyran laughed. He unsheathed his own sword: greater than Jon’s, longer and more handsome. “Ours are both forged from Ned Stark’s Greatsword Ice. I am pleased that it fell to both his Grandson’s, aren’t you?”

“So you believe I’m Arya Stark now?”

“How else would you have the King’s sword? Mother told me about Needle than hangs from your waist, how your brother Jon gave it to you before you left for King’s Landing. Did you know that he was dead?”

Arya nodded. “Yes.”

“We shall avenge it by murdering the men who sent the orders. Arya Stark, Jon, it will be a pleasure to have you ride in our host. May I introduce you to my sister, Alayne?”

Alayne whose wedding it had been when Arya poisoned King Joffrey’s cup gave Arya a small smile and a nod to the head. She looked awfully sick, her bright hair washed out the colour of her face, her blue eyes sunken into the hollows of her features. She might have been beautiful like Sansa, but Arya could not see it in her.

“Mother spoke so much about you,” her voice was hoarse and had a brittle, nasally quality to it. Perhaps she was just sick. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Arya had seen the effects of Alayne’s sickness so many times; thrice in herself after birthing Jon and deciding she would not allow any other men to put a child in her. Jon’s father had been dead many years; she had been very fond of him until he set sail to Valyria and never returned. She did not like to dwell on that, though.

Some things were better left in the past.


	40. Children of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive at Winterfell and some are more pleased to be there than others.

They set off from The Twins early on the morrow. Tyran took the lead of the stead, followed by Gerion and now Jon who rode proudly at the front on his deep red stallion as tall as his cousins. Alayne chose to take the litter, and did so for the few days that it took for them to ride to Winterfell complaining of illness. The further they rode north, the harsher the weather got: often blinding them with a flurry of snow, freezing their hair, chapping their lips and blistering their skin. It was still winter in the north; it was only just turning warm in the south. Their Aunt Arya would always take the horse, riding behind her son with her sword in her sheath. She was not one for conversation was their Aunt Arya, almost as clandestine as her Grandfather Tywin had once been. Jon had told his cousins they lived in Braavos, but even he did not seem aware of what his mother did, only that she was absent for long periods of time. But she seemed to take an interest in Gerion, and he seemed to take an interest in her: talking about the Free Cities and the men they had met and killed.

Eventually, they reached Winterfell. 

***

Sansa had woken early. A rider in the night had come to alert them that the Lannister host were only a few hours camped away from them. Initially Sansa believed it to be the Queen's men but the Lannister's were at war with the Baratheon's now. Lion and wolf and snake and falcon were to march against the stags and roses. The Lannister's hadn't rebelled against the crown for centuries, nor had they allied with the Stark's or Dorne. It was a revolution, but one that made Sansa uneasy having barely slept the night, she woke at the crack of dawn to her naked husband snoring quietly beside her. Gathering her gowns, she picked at the food on the table in the centre of the room and sat by the hearth with some grapes and water. She peeled the grapes in attempt to hurry time.

Before midday, Robb arrived to her chambers with a broad smile plastered across his face to tell his mother and father that he could see the host from the tower. Sansa had been engaged in one of Tyrion's books, Tyrion was struggling not to drift back off to sleep as he rest his head on her lap. When they heard the news, book and sleep lay forgotten and everybody assembled in the keep: the family, the servants and the members of the Stark household which still remained to them.

Tyran was first into the keep of Winterfell: adorned in a grey fur coat with a crimson hem on the bottom as he sat atop his great stallion. His untidy golden hair, falling past his shoulders, streamed behind him, deep in snow and crusted ice and mud. Rearing his horse round - a younger stallion than he rode before - he dismounted into the snow and rushed as quickly as deemed acceptable for a Warden of the West, to his family.

“Mother,” he said with a short sigh, his breath visible in the cold air.  “Mother,” he repeated once they embraced.

Sansa rushed to him as quickly as a foot of snow would allow her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, he grabbed his mother around her back, kissing her cheek. She pressed her fingers into his back, gripping the cloak and taking him all in.

“Tyran,” she whispered. “You’re not ever leaving again.”

Her eldest son laughed and released his mother. The Warden of the West embraced his little father, then laughing, clasped hands with Robb and pulled him into a hug. Sansa watched the litter pull into the yard and was filled with gnawing regret.

She had left Alayne in King’s Landing alone as she herself once had been as a little girl. Sansa had heard the rumours from her handmaidens who wrote to the other women in the capitol. Begrudgingly, they informed Sansa that Alayne had been beaten several times by her household guards, stripped before the Queen and apparently made to walk the walk of penance. However, she would not allow herself to believe such things. To keep her sane, Sansa believed her only daughter to be safe and well in the capitol, still as the wife of the beloved King.

But Alayne would not be the same girl they had abandoned in the capitol; isolation in the Red Keep, living off fear and sorrow transformed people. How would Alayne react to seeing her mother and father again? Would she be relieved that she was finally safe? Or would she loathe them for leaving her? Alayne had every right to hate Sansa and Tyrion for leaving them – the Gods knew it was one of the worst mistakes Sansa had made.

Alayne stepped out of the litter first, hoisting her gown around her ankles as she descended the steps. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. Alayne was not relieved to see her family again, nor was she angry. She stared at them all with an icy look, passing judgement. If anything, she did not seem to care where she was, who she was with or why she was north. Alayne did not seem to care anymore, but it did not mean that Sansa did.

It was Robb who went to his sister first, grabbing her around her waist and swinging her in the air as if she was a child. Alayne barely smiled but allowed her brother to kiss her cheek. Robb lead her to the family and with a smile, gave her hand to Sansa.

“Mother’s missed you terrible, Alayne,” Robb informed.

Sansa did also. She pulled her daughter into a tight embrace, bunching up her auburn hair in her fist, kissing her cheek repeatedly. Sansa could feel Alayne tighten under her grasp, as if uncomfortable by the touch of her own mother. Abandonment did not do well to her daughter's good graces; she was gaunt and all childhood had left her eyes. She was a living corpse: as dead as her Grandfather's but alive as her mother.

“I’m sorry,” was all Sansa could muster, pressing a hand dressed in a leather glove to her daughter’s face. “I should never have left you.”

“No,” Alayne agreed.

“Your father wanted to go back to you, but it wasn’t safe.”

Alayne said nothing, did not bend down to embrace her father as she had done so with her mother and brother, but allowed him to take her hand and kiss it.

“I’m so pleased you’re with us, Alayne.”

She said nothing. Sansa would prefer her to scream and hit them rather than say nothing. The silence was awful, but filled in by the arrival of Tyran with a golden haired child in his arms, introducing him to be their Grandson Caster.

“This is Caster. Caster, this is your Grandmother and Grandfather.”

Younger than Ned and Lyanna by a few months, Caster looked older. He was chubbier, hair which bounced in ringlets as Lyanna and William’s did golden like a true Lannister with perfect green eyes. Caster looked like a living doll: beautiful, pristine and whose face lit up upon seeing Sansa and Tyrion as if he knew them from a lifetime ago.

And then Sansa saw her.

A woman rode in on a black stallion with a boy at her side carrying a Lannister banner: a golden lion on a crimson back. The woman saw Sansa too and immediately dismounted her mare.

 _She kept her promise,_ Sansa could seldom believe.

The sister’s ran to each other, falling into each other’s arms and laughing as they had once done as children. Arya seemed to be crying, but holding back the tears for a home they had once both known and missed dearly. Sometimes when Sansa awoke in bed she believed herself to still be the twelve-year-old girl who loved lemoncakes and sewing and singing. She wondered if Arya thought, when riding into the gates of Winterfell, that she was a little girl and would be greeted by her brother’s and not her sister’s family.

“I told you I’d come home,” Arya said with a smile.

“I’m so pleased you did.”

Arya gazed around at her own home longingly. Sansa wondered if Arya would ever awaken from her sleep in her bed, expecting herself to be at Winterfell before the family was scattered, break her fast with her mother and father and brothers as Sansa so often did. Then awake miserably and remember that she had no mother and father and she belonged to the Lannister’s now.

“Only the crypts truly escaped the fire,” Sansa revealed. “Would you like to-”

“-No,” Arya said with a sad smile, “not today.”

Sansa had not wanted to visit the crypts when the first arrived at Winterfell, either, but had gone the following day and laid a wreath of flowers at the head of her father’s statue.

“There’s a feast tonight to welcome the house to Winterfell,” Robb announced at his mother’s side. “Rickon should be back by then.”

“Rickon’s here?” Arya asked.

Sansa beamed and looked around at her family. It was untrue, but for the first time she felt complete. "Everyone's here."

***

It was as grand of a feast that Tyrion remembered hosting for the royal family when he first came to Winterfell. Dozens of courses, twice as many platters, more wine that Tyrion had ever seen in a room on any occasion other than a wedding, music, singers, jugglers, laughter and his family altogether. Tyrion did wish he could enjoy it; Sansa certainly was with Rickon and Arya either side of her, the three of them laughing and conversing all night. His son’s and close friends drank together at the top of the table, Lords and Ladies scattered themselves across the room conversing. Tyrion should have gone with them, to enjoy the night, but he couldn’t. Sansa may have been quick to forget that their daughter had been abandoned at the capitol at the sight of being reunited with her sister and brother – the closest to family she had ever gotten, but Tyrion could not forget. He stayed by a sullen Alayne throughout the night as she stared across the room without appearance or care. She did not touch her food, only drank her wine.

“You shouldn’t drink so much, Alayne,” Tyrion said softly, taking the jug away from her. “Not without eating anything.” She reached over the vacant seat beside her to the other cup of wine and filled it to the brim in defiance. “Try and enjoy yourself. There are plenty of girl’s your age, you can go and make friends.”

“I don’t want to make friends with silly little girls,” Alayne snapped. “I want to go to my bedchambers.”

“I’m not stopping you from leaving,” Tyrion said, “but your brother would be very disappointed if you left.”

Alayne began to laugh darkly. “How awful it would be to leave my brother.”

“Alayne...” Tyrion struggled for words. “Alayne I am very sorry – I cannot make amends for what we did to you. We should never have left you in King’s Landing, but it was the only excuse that Tyran would have had for leaving the west – we did not think that Alyse would summon him to her coronation.”

“Then you’re more a fool than Robb."

“Robb cares for you deeply-”

“-Tyran was furious you left me. It took him less than a month from Casterly Rock to the capitol so he would be with me. You could have turned around if you cared so much, but oh _no_ you and mother had to stay with your precious, darling Robb, didn’t you?” He took Alayne’s hand, but she pulled it away. “The son mother always wanted to grace her family. I don't think I could ever forgive you for what you did."

“I don’t expect you to, but you mustn’t blame your mother and I.”

“I blame Robb. I will hate Robb for this until the day I die, no matter what he says or does or gives me. But you... How could _you_ ride back on your own? You wouldn’t last a day.”

“Insult me if it makes you feel better, insult me all you want. Just know that I love you, and regret deeply what I have done to you.”

“You will never know what _they_ did to me, father. I will never want you to know for I fear you would kill yourself out of grief.”

“Alayne, your mother and I love you dearly. If you told somebody what happened to you-”

"-Stop saying that you love me dearly. I'm too old to be lied to."

“Alayne-”

“-Don’t _Alayne_ me, father. I don’t want to stay at Winterfell anymore.”

“Then where will you go?”

“Anywhere. I don’t want to be with Robb anymore. I can’t stand the sight of him.”

"You're still a little girl. When the war is over-"

“-When the war is over, Robb will be dead. His children will be dead, you will be dead, mother will be dead, as well as Ned and Lyanna and William and Serena and Caster. All of them will be murdered. Doesn’t he understand he can’t _win_ this war?” She got out of her chair, slamming her cup on the table. “You haven’t seen what Alyse is capable of. You think that even with the support of Dorne and the Vale she can be beaten. Dorne will turn on you. Littlefinger wants power – he’ll try and seize the Iron Throne with Robb sat on it. Robb should not be King.”

“Then who should?”

She did not answer him. _She hates me. My daughter hates me._ Alayne had the right to hate him – to hate all of them. Tyrion knew he should not have left her, but Robb had reassured them so that she would be safe. Tyrion should have known better. Joffrey may have been dead, but the Realm had not changed. He thought that she would be safe because Joffrey was gone, but nobody was ever truly safe. Alayne was joined at the side by a tall man, golden hair like his own and green eyes: the man Tyran had promised Highgarden to if they won the war.

“Gerion I want to leave,” Alayne confessed.

The man nodded, glancing to Tyrion and then back to Alayne. “Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Away from here. Away from my family.”

Without anybody's consent, she left the feast.

***

Robb and Tyran sat drinking at the end of the high table with other men. One included Gerion Lannister; the other was the ruling Prince of Dorne.

“When will our children wed?” Asked the Prince of Dorne the candlelight bringing out the amber in his eyes as if they were afire. “Your Lyanna for my Artos, my Daenerys for your Eddard.”

“When they are six-and-ten.”

“My children are six-and-ten before your own. In Artos’ case, it is seven years.”

“And my Lyanna is still a babe. We will send her to Dorne days after her sixteenth name day as discussed, as you will send Daenerys upon hers. Once the war is won we shall settle upon these oaths in the Sept.”

“Who’ll be your heir to the throne then?” Tyran wondered. “Ned?”

Robb hesitated. “I need an heir for Winterfell _and_ the throne.”

“You have two sons,” the Prince smirked. “Eddard and the dwarf.”

Robb scowled and raised his cup of wine to his lips. “Soon Grace shall give me another son to give to Winterfell.”

“What a terrible thing to say,” Tyran reprehended. “I hope Grace never gives you anymore sons. If you give Ned the throne, William is your heir. You cannot pick and choose your heirs as you wish.”

“Your brother is right,” Prince Artos said, “if you’re worried about not having an heir for your youngest son, I have a few horses in my stead.”

Robb started to laugh, pouring himself a cup of wine. “I fear your fine Dornish horses are not even good enough for my dwarf.”

Tyran was in disbelief. This was not the brother he had parted ways with in the Red Keep. The Robb he knew had married Grace because she was with child. That Robb would never cast aside a second son, regardless of his disability. Everybody had told Tyran that he was just like Lord Tywin; perhaps Robb was more like their Lannister Grandfather than they had once thought.

“Gerion... You have the bastard son of my cousin Loreza... What say you and I exchange a union between your son and my daughter?”

“Will you offer me horses for my son?”

“Your son is not a dwarf. A bastard, but not a dwarf.”

“All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes,” Tyran stated. “Is that not right, Robb?”

Robb shrugged, the wine slurring his speech. If Robb would confess to such heinous opinions when he was drunk, he hoped for William’s sake – who was not even off the breast yet – would not stay north long enough to hear them.

“Yes! You’re right! Gods why did they curse me with a _dwarf_? I’m a joke to the Realm!” The Prince laughed with him. “They’ll sing songs about his deformities!”

“If you don’t want him anymore why don’t you throw him in a river?” Gerion snapped.

“Stark blood... He’s still my son. I can deprive him of my lands but I can’t very well go and kill him. I’ll send him off to be a squire when he’s old enough or give him to a lower house to foster. Father seems to like him, perhaps I should give him to him as a pet.”

“I am certain Grace would not approve of that.”

“William won’t take her tits – I don’t know why; they’re bloody marvellous. She doesn’t go to him when he cries; she goes for one of the girl’s. Gods, my girls are going to be beautiful.”

“Well they’ll get that from Grace then, won’t they?”

Robb hesitated for a moment, and then looked up at Gerion. “What does that mean?”

“Never mind,” Gerion took his wine. “I’m going to talk to your sister,” he muttered to Tyran.

The Warden of the West nodded. With Highgarden, Tyran could also give him Alayne. They were fond of each other, Caster’s wet nurse told Tyran and that Alayne would speak frequently of him. It would not be an awful match, and if they were fond of each other then the Gods knew that Alayne needed a little bit of happiness in her life. Gerion had told Tyran what they had done to her: Ser Deryn had raped her, beat her and humiliated her. That was why Tyran had left the capitol so fast; he couldn’t be the one to be accused of the mutilation of Ser Deryn’s body now, could he?

“Who even is he?” Robb asked.

“Our cousin,” Tyran informed.

“We have too many... Too many cousins... I have too many sons...” He laughed at himself. “Cousins... What about a marriage between our children? I need someone for Serena.”

“No,” Tyran shook his head. “No Caster will choose his own wife.”

“Every parents says that until they get a nice offer and bag of gold, keep and land for one of their children.”

“Caster is the heir of Casterly Rock. He doesn’t need your gold and land that would be given to him from a _second_ daughter. Caster will never be-" Tyran struggled for the words. "Caster shall never be forced into my position."

Robb gave him a wicked smile. “Unable to fuck and marry the Queen?”

Tyran did not know what overcame his brother, and he did not know what overcame himself. A minute ago, he had been cursing Robb in his mind, calling him ungrateful and a bastard, and within an instant he was on his feet, punching his brother square in the nose. The room turned silent, falling towards the brother’s. Robb was thrown off his chair and struggled to regain himself. Clearing his throat, Tyran left the room.

He cut between the people and out into the yard. Tyran crossed the stables and the men who staggered drunk outside singing songs into their ale. Tyran ignored them all, tentatively rubbing his knuckle which began to bleed. He heard his mother call out for him but he ignored her. Tyran walked until the sound of the castle was behind him, the lights no bigger than fireflies and Tyran slid down an old tree into the snow.

He should never have left King’s Landing. He should have stayed and become Alyse’s King. The Gods knew he would be happier if he stayed when she asked him to a month ago – or even better, not have even gone to Casterly Rock but stayed with Alyse never the less. But as always, Tyran did what was best and in this case the best was to give House Lannister an heir, and married the psychotic Selene Lannister. She had given him a son. Alyse did not have to give him one anymore. He should have stayed with Alyse and Caster in King’s Landing and become King – send Alayne out of the capitol and back to Winterfell or have her as the standing Lady of Casterly Rock. It would be so much simpler if he had done so. He would not have to partake in this war with his brother – they were foolish for planning it to begin with. They could never win, no matter how many men they had on their side.

They could never win because Tyran would never allow anyone to murder Alyse so long as he still lived. If he had to stand before the dagger that would slice Alyse’s throat or stab her then he would do so. They were supposed to be together. Tyran didn’t want to be with anyone else but Alyse. She had taken no other man to bed but Tyran had taken a wife – how bad must he have made her feel? Desperately, Tyran wanted to sob, but even more desperately he wanted to take his son and a horse and a pocket of gold and return to his lady love. Fuck Robb. Fuck the war. It could just be he and Alyse and Caster together in the Red Keep as the new royal family – he would adore that.

But Robb would not leave the war. He would fight Tyran with his own men. Robb would not spare his brother’s life, but he might do for their mother’s sake. What would Tyran do? He would kill his brother: a traitor: a man who tried to murder the woman he loved. He hated himself for thinking that, but Tyran knew it to be true. Could he kill Alayne too? Or his mother and father? He loved his mother dearly, and his father too and Alayne. But Robb... Hearing Robb speak so cruelly of his own son would haunt Tyran’s mind forever. If he became King, Tyran would look upon his brother on the Iron Throne and remember the words he spoke about his son.

Perhaps if they took the throne, Tyran should name himself King. He did not want the throne, but he would take it: put the only Lannister his Grandfather ever wanted on the throne.

***

They broke their fast the following morning. There would be twelve days left until they would ride for the Red Keep and take it. By then, the support from the east would arrive and the final fleet of ships from Dorne. Robb was eager to start this war and become King: to become the most powerful man in Westeros, avenge the deaths of Lord Eddard and Lord Robb and all the other Northmen who had died in vain.

“My Uncle won’t support us,” Sansa said with a sigh. “He refuses to partake. The Riverlands remain neutral.”

“We’ll change his mind when he sees our host,” Robb stated nonchalantly. “If not, then we’ll force him to join us: make it a sacred pact and bound him by blood. Does he have children? A daughter, doesn’t he? Well we’ll find a Lord for his daughter to wed... Tyran’s available.”

“Tyran is a grown man who will not let his little brother choose his wife for him,” reminded Rickon. “Or he’ll hit you again.”

Robb grimaced, gingerly touching his nose where his brother had punched him. It still hurt. What hurt more was that it had come from his brother. Robb didn’t remember doing anything to offend him. They were talking about their sons and the pact between Dorne and the North, Robb had said he favoured Ned over William, had only spoken the truth. He had done nothing wrong, had he?

“I’m to be his King and he’ll do as I say.”

“That’s enough,” reprehended his father. “We have discussed this Robb. You will not choose who _my_ children marry be it Alayne or be it Tyran.”

Robb let out a sigh. “Alayne’s not getting any younger and neither is Tyran. There are plenty of Lord’s who’ll take Alayne to be their wife. Give her to one of them.”

“I am sat here,” Alayne snapped.

They were all breaking fast together: Robb, Alayne, Rickon, Arya and their mother and father. Tyran was not with them and neither were the children. Tyran had not broken his fast with his family for two years. He would not be missed for another day.

“And Arya, what about Jon?”

“What about Jon?”

“The Prince of Dorne has another daughter-”

“- _Robb_ ,” Tyrion snapped. “You cannot decide who weds who. It is not the primary goal in people’s lives to marry well and benefit the family. Your mother and I never pestered you to wed and I beg you to do the same with your own family. You’ve bartered your son and daughter-”

“-They’re not livestock-”

“-Like cattle. You cannot do the same to other people’s children.”

“I bet when one of your bodies are still warm Robb will bring another man or woman by the arm and say: ‘mother or father, I am sorry that whoever out of you two died,” he spoke to Sansa and Tyrion. “But here’s somebody who has great land and a massive army who you need to marry. The same Septon who blessed the corpse of your spouse is here to initiate the marriage. Sorry there won’t be a feast or anything.” A laugh spread across the table excluding Robb who merely stabbed at his food with his fork. “Are you going to order me to marry anyone, or Arya?”

“No one would have _you_ ,” Arya shot at her youngest brother.

“I thought you were already wed,” Robb said quietly. “To Jon’s father.”

His estranged Aunt shook her head. “He died before he could ask me. I knew he was going to,” she said laughing fondly, “said he would give me a ring from Valyria when he returned, only he never did.”

***

Sansa dared never to mention Jon’s father to Arya. She knew too much of the nature of Arya’s work in Braavos, had asked questions in the capitol subtly when the conversation passed by the Free Cities. She knew she murdered people for gold, but she didn’t regard Arya for it any less. Arya was back with her now, at Winterfell and safe. But Sansa was curious about her life in Braavos and more importantly with Jon’s father. She had tried mentioning it at the feast, but Arya had passed by the subject frequently.

At the end of their meal together, Arya and Sansa walked the grounds together. They laughed with each other, their arms linked in one another, as if they had not been separated for years. Arya mentioned Sansa’s past, so Sansa asked about Arya’s.

“Who is Jon’s father?” Sansa asked.

“A man,” Arya recollected. “Went travelling with him a long time and found him again when I went to the Stormlands. I was perhaps three-and-ten – or I might have been fourteen, I don’t know. I can change my face, I would look like beautiful women to seduce men and then murder them. I never had to do it with him, though. He fell in love with me quicker than I could kill his Lord. He snuck onto my ship that was taking me back to Braavos and then he took me, put Jon in me and lived with us in Braavos for a time. The Faceless Men only wanted him for his blood: he had the blood of a King. That was all he was worth to them, but he was worth a lot to me.”

“Who was he?”

She let out a sigh. “A bastard from King's Landing with a high name."

“Who was his father?”

“Robert Baratheon.”

“A worthier King than Joffrey would be. What happened to him?”

“They sent him to Valyria: they wanted remnants which were lost in the Doom: Valyrian swords and gold and ancient books and religious figurine. He promised to find me a ring then give it to me, but he never came back to me.”

“Did Jon know him?”

“He was a good father to him,” Arya claimed. “And good to me too. He looked after Jon when I went away, got jealous when I went to other men’s beds, but cared for me when I had their child in me. I’ve been with babe perhaps half a dozen times. Gendry’s was the only one I kept until I lost our girl.”

“His name was Gendry?" Sansa asked. "I didn't know you lost a daughter."

“She was born thirteen years after Jon: beautiful little thing. I called her Cat but Gendry called her Dog,” Arya laughed fondly. “But then she caught the Golden Plague and passed. They all thought it was because she was a bastard, expected Jon to die next but he never did.”

“When did Gendry leave?”

“A week after we lost Cat.”

Sansa took her sister’s hand. “That’s dreadful.”

“That’s life. I never thought it was the Gods cursing me for Cat being a bastard, but cursing me because I killed six other children who lived inside me because they weren’t Gendry’s. Did you ever lose a child?” Sansa said she did not. “Then you’re luckier than most. You can grieve for parents and suffer for a time, but when you lose a child... You’re an orphan when your parents die and a widow when your spouse dies, but there’s no word for when your child dies because there simply are no words to describe how you feel. Drove Gendry to madness... Drove me to Westeros.”

Sansa didn’t know anything to say, only this: “You named your daughter for her?”

“You didn’t?”

“It was hard enough for Tyrion to allow them to let me give Robb the name Robert. They would never allow me a Catelyn or a Jon or an Eddard, but Robb did and... Arya I never believed you were dead; you were strong, I knew you could survive on your own. Did you see father? Did you see them take his head?”

Arya nodded. “And you were still going to marry Joffrey?”

“I didn’t love him anymore if you thought I did. I never loved him, I just wanted to leave Winterfell. I was such a fool.”

“Yes you were,” Arya agreed. “But I don’t believe you wed _Tyrion_ out of love.”

The eldest Stark sister frowned. “He’s never been wicked to me, not like other Lannister’s – even Tywin wasn’t directly horrid to me – but Tyrion’s been kind and a good father.”

“Don’t tell me you’re in love with imp, Sansa; mother would have a fit.”

Sansa let out a light laugh. She didn’t know what she felt about Tyrion. If she was in love with him, it was a very different love than she ever expected to feel. They had not been apart in eighteen years, yet she had not grown sick of the sight of him. Perhaps she did love him, or she loved the life he gave her: the safety through their marriage. He had wrapped her in a cloak and named her a Lannister, his men had pulled Lannister children from her but then made one a wolf and taken her back to Winterfell with all three of her children, a brother and her sister. She had not thought her life would ever be like this. Not ever.


	41. Brothers and Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Tyran change plans while Tyrion sups with his future son-in-law

They greeted each other in the yard, and their encounter had been accidental. The two brothers had been with their son’s in the snow, Tyran made clumps of snow for Caster to admire and he would laugh when his father threw them and hit a tree. Caster was not very old, a talented babe though. Whispers said he was born with a gift, people feared for him to be magic, born in witchcraft which explained his intelligence. Tyran didn’t know about that, but knew his son not to be dangerous, but certainly gifted when compared with his cousins. Though little Ned was the favourite in the castle, he was not extraordinary in looks or manner, quite different to Caster who resembled a living doll: beautiful and treasured which gave Robb cause to spite his brother.

“Brother,” Tyran greeted with a nod of his head.

“Hullo Tyran.”

Tyran realised that after two days to Winterfell, he had not been given the honour of meeting any of Robb’s children, only ever hearing about them. He had seen the eldest boy, caught a glimpse of the youngest girl. Robb’s Ned was almost two years of age and walking on his chubby toddler legs, clinging to his father’s body as he kicked in the snow. Several months younger, Caster relied on the arms of his father to move throughout the castle and grounds, not able to take more than a few steps before falling on the ground, but always eager to try.

“Are you enjoying your walk with your son?” Tyran inquired. “You need to realise that despite William’s condition, he is still your son.”

“I know he’s my son,” Robb admitted gravely. “And I try to love him – truly I do.”

“Try harder.”

“I won’t treat him badly. He’s my second son. I’ll give him Winterfell if I become King. I promise you.”

“Do not promise me: promise to the little boy you slandered.”

“Yes I shall, I shall. Walk with me, Tyran. I want to show Ned the grounds before we leave.” Tyran had intended on taking Caster inside to sleep, but joined his brother never the less. “Where did you get the name Caster from?”

“Selene liked it.”

“I’m sorry to hear about her,” Robb muttered. “Must have been awful. Why did she do it?”

“If I knew then I could have stopped her. She was senile and she left a little boy without a mother: for that I cannot forgive her.”

“Caster is very – this sounds wrong of me – Caster is very _beautiful_.”

As people had told him many times. “People say he looks like me.”

Robb laughed. “You never normally make jokes. I’m sorry for what I said about Alyse too; it was out of order. I know you loved her.”

 _Loved._ Since when had he stopped loving her? “Yes,” Tyran agreed.

“We don’t have to kill her-”

“-We do. You know that we do.”

“Yes, but I don’t want you to see it. There’s another thing I want to ask you – something else to do when we get to King’s Landing. When we march the Throne Room and take the crown... What you said to me the other night made me think. I don’t want William to have Winterfell; I want _Ned Stark_ to have it. I wanted Winterfell all of my life and it seems wrong of me to give it to a second son after I die. I think I want to stay in Winterfell when the war is won. I want you to be King.”

Tyran stared at his brother incredulously. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes I am – I don’t want to be King. It seems fun, but it’s too much responsibility and you’d handle it better than me.”

It was what Tyran had wanted two nights ago: to deprive Robb of the crown he had plotted to take. But when it was offered to Tyran it did not sound appeasing. All he wanted was Casterly Rock and a safe home for Caster. He would have Alyse too if he could.

“If you would come and visit me at King’s Landing regularly; it can get very cold in the north and I would like for you and Grace and your children to stay with me until the last snows of winter come to a halt.”

“I’d like that,” Robb smiled, and held out his hand for his brother to take. “Sorry.”

Tyran did not forgive Robb for the words he spoke against his son, but accepted his apology on the basic fact that they were brothers and about to venture a war, but that primarily, Robb had given the Iron Throne to Tyran.

“And Alayne?” Robb asked measurably. “What happened to her at King’s Landing?”

Tyran did not think it wise to tell his brother the truth about Alayne. “She lost her husband. She will not overcome that quickly.”

“I want her to be safe. I was thinking about leaving her, mother, father, Grace and our children at Winterfell when we go to war; it’s better in the north than it ever will be in a camp.”

“With how many men?”

“Exactly; we don’t have the men to spare. Then I thought about sending them to Dorne, or to The Vale or to Dragonstone; Queen Rhaella was safe there during Robert’s Rebellion. I’m hoping our families will be safe there too.”

“We cannot give Dorne the leverage of our entire family. I do not trust them to that extent. Prince Oberyn and Princess Arianne will not be honourable hosts I should imagine.”

Robb agreed they would not. “Mother won’t leave us and neither will father. I know father can’t fight, but he has a mind for strategy and war more capable than any of us; he has lived through the past two rebellions and he is the only one who has.”

“I will not leave my son alone, unguarded and on an island that can easily be overrun.”

“We can’t take them to war though.”

“You predict it to be a short war: we storm King’s Landing and take the throne within the day. We do not have to take any lands for we have the majority of Westeros as our allies. We can deal with the loyalists once we have won the war and force them to bend the knee. Do you have any other better ideas?”

Robb shook his head. “We can’t spare the men to protect them.”

They could, but however many men they left to guard the family would not be enough to put Tyran’s conscience at ease. He would be leaving his son, his sister and his mother. It would not be easy fighting a war when he would be fighting with his mind about whether or not they are alive and safe.

“We have eight days to prepare for war. Eight days and we ride south to capture our home.”

“King’s Landing was never our home, Tyran; Winterfell and Casterly Rock are our homes and the future homes of our children. I’m in debt to Alayne for leaving her at King’s Landing. I want to give her Highgarden.”

“We already promised Highgarden to Ser Gerion when he leads the voyage at Blackwater.”

Robb rolled his eyes. “They’re clearly... What’s the word – in love-”

“-Besotted would be a better word.”

“Alright then, Alayne and Gerion are clearly _besotted_ with each other. You can tell by the way she looks at him, I’ve never seen her look at a man like that before – not even Lucian. We should let them wed after the war; Alayne is too young to be a widow twice over.”

“There could be worse men for her to fall in love with.”

“The man has three bastards: one to a Sandsnake in Dorne, he’s a bastard himself in both ways. He lived in the Free Cities killing men for gold. He’s not my _ideal_ husband for our little sister-”

“-But you are in her debt for leaving her at King’s Landing,” Tyran reminded with a smile. “Give her Highgarden and a husband that she loves and children and she will soon forgive what you did to her.”

“And who will sit at Casterly Rock while you are King?”

“I want to keep Alyse’s law of succession: that a girl can inherit before a boy if she is born first.”

“So did I,” it was no mystery why Robb wished to keep it so; Serena and Lyanna were born before William, by right, Winterfell was hers if something should befall Ned and Lyanna. “But they all advised me against it: father, Dorne, the east... It’s hard to say no when powerful men from all sides of the realm are nagging at you – good luck with your Kingship. So who will you name as acting Lord or Lady? If we give Alayne Highgarden, that makes our uncle Kevan the Lord unless there is somebody else who you give it to with a better claim.”

Tyran knew who he would name as Lord of Casterly Rock; it was the same person that Robb was suggesting Tyran gives it to.

“Father will sit Casterly Rock until my second child is born and comes of age. He wanted the Rock when he was a young boy; it had been his by right until Grandfather named me the heir. I shall grant him and mother Casterly.”

“He’ll like that,” Robb smiled.

Lord Tywin had wanted complete control of the Realm, but for his plan to work, it would take several decades and several deaths. Of course, seizing the throne had not been his ideal choice, but it would put House Lannister into the power they deserved. Tyran would be King, his brother the Warden of the North, his father acting Warden of the West, two betrothals with Dorne: a son for a daughter, Tyran’s sister would sit at Highgarden. It would only be the east the Lannister’s would not have control of, but with a few betrothals to get rid of a few second sons or last born daughter’s, they could secure the Vale’s loyalty. In a moon or two, Tyran might be King. In a moon or two, Alyse would be dead. He could not have one without the other, and _Gods_ did Tyran want to be King.

***

Sansa did not want her daughter to hate her, nor did she want Alayne to hate her brother for leading the abandonment of the Red Keep. But Sansa knew how Alayne felt better than most: left to the devices of a malicious monarch with more power than they knew what to do with. Sansa could understand her fright, the hatred she felt towards Robb for choosing to leave her and not once offered to turn back and return for her. Sansa was furious at Robb to an extent, but it was not wise to take her family for granted.

She attempted to spend as much time with Alayne as possible, to remind her only daughter that she was safe now, that they could not hurt her anymore. She would not believe her lies easily when Alayne knew too much of the truth.

Her sons should not have started this ridiculous war, what did they know about fighting one? They would live under Queen Alyse’s reign calmly. Sansa and Tyrion had known her since birth, been like parents to her and Sansa had loved the Queen and the little girl she had once been. Apparently, there was a reason for fighting this war that her oldest children wouldn’t tell her about, and Sansa refused to believe they were fighting for a better place. With Cersei, Joffrey and Tywin dead, what harm and malicious acts could Alyse do? She did not have the mind for war, had no trusted advisors and less men than them. They could take the crown in a moon, but for what cause, really? To avenge the North: that had been Lord Tywin and Walder Frey’s work. Both were dead, their families destroyed. They could live in their own respected castles for numerous peaceful years. They would not have abandoned Alayne.

Alayne refused to tell her mother what the matter was. Sansa and Alayne had once been so close, but Alayne rejected her mother. She sat alone in her room, would dine quietly with her family. Tyran had told Sansa that she did once dine with House Serrett as a way of self-recovery, but the Serrett’s had told him she was quiet and a frightful soul, insisting himself that he did not know what overcame his sister. Sansa did not like to imagine the pain that could have been inflicted towards her. She had tried to block the memories out of when it had happened to her a long, long time ago.

Alayne seemed the most content when she was with Ser Gerion: a companion to her brother. A lowborn Lannister from the main branch: the son of Tyrion’s cousin, his mother was a bastard like himself. He was her guard, Sansa could see, always in her company in the corridors and grounds as if she feared to be alone. Sansa tried to talk to Alayne about him, but it was never a topic Alayne was grateful for.

“I know Tyran and Robb want me to wed him after the war is won,” Alayne said, “and I like him and I will marry him. Is there such shame in my betrothed walking me around the corridors?”

“Only when your betrothed is the only person whose company you enjoy.”

“I enjoy your company, mother.”

“Alayne,” Sansa reached over the table with the intention to take her daughter’s hand, but Alayne retracted, pretending to take a sip of her water. “Alayne I’m your mother! I know what you’re-”

“-No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. When I was much younger than you: twelve-years-old, _I_ was held a prisoner of King’s Landing and I had awful things inflicted upon me. Joffrey’s men would beat me; he stripped me naked before the court once and forced me to watch Illyn Payne take my father’s head and then took me to the walls and made me watch. The difference is, was that I had no family at the time, and you do: you have a mother and a father and two brothers, nieces and nephews whom all love you. We want to help you, Alayne.”

“What else did Joffrey do to you? Was that it?”

“He forced me to marry your father-”

“-How awful that must have been for you,” Sansa could detect the sarcasm in her daughter’s voice. “How awful Joffrey gave you children and a home and a place at court and safety. Didn’t you have it bad?”

“Alayne-”

“-What else did Joffrey do? Did he rape you? Did he rape you, mother?”

“He _threatened_ to-”

“-Oh, how badly I feel for you. You were given a nice room, handmaidens, a high place at court, beautiful gowns, freedom to walk the grounds and talk to whoever you wished to talk to, companions, handmaidens, and food. I never had any of that. I was starved, everything I owned was taken from me, I wasn’t even allowed to leave the room my husband died in: I was trapped with the smell of him still lingering in the air.”

Sansa only wanted to provide her daughter with help. It would not do her well to push her away. Sansa felt awful hearing what had happened to her daughter, she could feel the tears form in her eyes, but Sansa knew well how to hide them. “You have your family now, my darling. We won’t let anything bad ever happen to you. I promise you.”

“Lucian made that promise to me too, mother,” it was not Sansa who started to cry, but Alayne. “He promised to protect me when he wrapped me in that cloak! But he died! I wasn’t even there! His sister sent me from the room and she killed him, mother! She killed him! He told me to leave, kissed my hand and assured me he would be fine. But he _died_! Why did he have to die? Why did he have to leave me?”

Swiftly, Sansa strode round the circumference of the table and held her daughter to her chest. Alayne began to sob into her gown, bunching at it with her fists. He cried as if she had not cried in months, that she was releasing all the sorrow and heartache into that one crying feature. Sansa held her daughter close as she screamed into her mother’s gown as the mother herself bit back tears, all the while stroking back her daughter’s hair and telling her that she was safe now, that nobody could hurt her and her brother’s would avenge Lucian’s death.

“I never told him I loved him,” Alayne cried, her voice hoarse. “I enjoyed teasing him too much! I should never have left him. I should have stayed with him and kissed him and held him and he should have died in my arms and I should have told him that I loved him.”

“He did know that you loved him,” Sansa whispered.

“No he didn’t! I never told him!”

“He knew,” Sansa whispered. “He knew because why else would you stay by his side if not because you loved him? Now you cry, my darling; mother’s here to hold you, I’m always here now. I’ll never leave you again.”

***

It was impossible. Surely it was impossible. He had shared her bed thrice two moons ago. They could not know by now... _Surely_ somebody must be mistaken. She never bled. She felt no different.

“You are with child, your Grace,” Grand Maester Qyburn claimed. “Two moons so. Your body temperature is high. Your seven urine tests come back positive against this potion... Your Grace, if you don’t mind me saying do: delightful mothers do not often send seven samples of urine to be tested once they discover they are with child. There is a potion that can remove the babe from you if you wish.”

Queen Alyse shook her head. She was in the Maester’s laboratory: a quiet, eerie chamber underneath the castle. It was a horrifying place: limbs scattered on shelves and arrays of potions and ingredients and dead animals. You would not believe the man to be Grand Maester if you saw his chambers.

“I’ll keep the child,” Alyse said, “but this information does not leave this room.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

She left his chambers. She dared not think about it. She was with his child: it was everything that she wanted, the key to keeping him by her side. He had left her because she could not give him a child, but two moons later, it had been clarified seven times that she did in face, have Tyran Lannister’s child growing inside her. It could not be anyone else’s; she refused to share her bed with any man who was not the Warden of the West: the man who had joined forces in the north with his brother and family to march south and take her throne, murder her and kill the babe he did not know about.

Alyse had horrid dreams about when they took King’s Landing and the Red Keep, and they only worsened now that she knew she had his child inside her. He would ride to her as she sat atop the Iron Throne in her father’s crown, in the most beautiful gown and cloak she owned and stare down at them all. Somebody would stab her, she would call for him and he would run to her side and hold her in his arms. When she could feel the life draining out of her, Alyse would take Tyran’s hand and place it on her bloody belly and tell him he did not need to have married his cousin for a child, because she had given him one, then close her eyes forever. She imagined the look on his face when she told him. It was serve him right for leaving her. They had said wedding vows to each other, but it was clear now that it only had meaning to Alyse.

***

William Stark was not monstrous. He did not look that much different than other little boys, only that he was smaller. His limbs were not oddly sized, just smaller than they should be at five months. His sister was larger, took more milk from their mother and got more attention from their father. But neither of the youngest would ever amount to the eldest, perfect twins who could now speak and walk with assistance.

“Soon Ned will be able to ride a horse and wield a sword,” Robb would enthuse to everybody, so enthusiastic he would probably delay the war until Ned was older so that he too, could participate and earn glory. “And Lya will be the beauty of every tourney.”

Tyran did not want to sound cruel, but he doubted ever that Lyanna would grow to be an exceptional beauty; neither of her parents were.

But both of Robb’s favourite children were sweet and well-behaved and Tyran hoped Ned would make a better Lord and father than his own, though it was a wicked thing to think about his brother, Tyran was glad that Robb would not be King. It would save a lot of hassle.

He wondered if William was a curse from the Gods as a deterrent that they shouldn’t go to war. If the Gods wanted to send an omen to Robb, they should murder his first born... Tyran instantly regretted ever thinking that; the death of Ned would kill Robb. Tyran liked to think that the death of any of his children would destroy Robb. Tyran knew that if anything should happen to Caster, his world would be destroyed. Caster meant everything to Tyran, and still he was in wonder how much he could love something so much, to a wife who hated him and who killed herself. Caster would soon learn the truth. He might resent himself, but it was not his fault. If anybody was to blame it was entirely Tyran.

He might have stayed with her a long time ago – he probably would have done too if the honour of his House didn’t interrupt him. If Margaery Tyrell hadn’t mutilated her own _daughter_ – a fact that still horrified Tyran to the day – he would have stayed with her, produced an abundance of heirs for both Casterly Rock and the throne. He should have stayed away from Queen Alyse when he was a young boy, but he had been deluded into thinking that he might actually be allowed to wed her. Tyran still laughed at his foolishness. He wouldn’t marry Alyse given the chance. He wouldn’t marry a woman who ordered men to rape a young girl on information for her brother. That was not the Alyse he had fallen in love with.

The Alyse Baratheon that sat on the throne, Tyran hated her.

He didn’t think he would be capable of killing her if he got the chance, but the temptation to slice the throat of the woman who would forever haunt his sister’s dreams and thoughts because of the orders she had given was too much that Tyran imagined the possible ways of killing her that would be long, slow and painful.

His father mentioned Queen Alyse to him for the first time in many, many years. Tyrion held his Grandson on his knee: the golden haired boy who would inherit Casterly Rock from his father, the son who Tyran was scared to believe would grow to blame himself for his mother’s death.

“Did you love her?”

Tyran thought he had meant Caster’s mother, the pretty and deluded Selene. “No. I only married out of duty.”

His father shook his head, chuckling. “Alyse. Did you love her?”

“Yes,” Tyran answered. “I am trying not to, though.”

“That’s probably for the best. You could have married her. Your mother and I would have allowed it.”

“Grandfather would not have done, and there is more to Alyse than what would have allowed me to wed her, though I do not want to elaborate.”

***

There was more to Tyran’s story than he was allowing Tyrion to know. There was more to Alayne’s too. King’s Landing was the capitol of secrets. His two children were caught up in one as it seemed.

“Would it put your son’s life in danger?”

Tyran shook his head. “No.”

“Would you tell me the basics?”

“Yes,” Tyran sighed. “Father knew, Cersei knew. I think most of the castle knew – the Tyrell household essentially. There is a reason behind why Lucian could not give Alayne any children as there is one when Alyse and I shared each other’s beds many a time-” Tyrion held his hand; he did not need to learn the extent of the love life of his children. “Queen Margaery... She had men cut her son when he was young. It was Lady Olenna’s work, but Margaery risked mutilating her own son for the good of House Tyrell. Then the Maester’s fed Alyse and Alysanne’s potions, and when Margaery died and the Tyrell’s left King’s Landing, it was Cersei who gave them the poison. I suppose now that Alyse is Queen she will not be fed by her Grandmother and the potion will stop working and she will be free to carry children.”

“You sound disappointed at that.”

***

Tyran did not know how to feel. He did not know whether he should be overjoyed that the love of his life could not bear him children: more heirs to Casterly Rock if he went back to her and wed her, or if he should be dissatisfied because a person like Alyse should not be allowed children.

“I do not know, father. Did you know what Margaery did?”

“I think everybody had their suspicion when Queen Alyse hadn’t bled by the time she was three-and-ten and that Lucian wasn’t able to... _perform_ his duties as a husband, _Gods_.”

Tyran mustered a smile. “I have haunted your mind with the image of your daughter and the King in bed together.”

“ _Don’t_. It is the image of you and Alyse that will haunt me the most. I don’t know what to say to you, Tyran. When it was Robb bedding common women, I could not be a hypocrite. But Alyse was royal blood; I should never have allowed you to get too caught up in your affair with my suspicions. I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologise,” Tyran consoled. “I have a son: my heir. I shall marry again once the war is one and find a new bride for the west. Dorne has many highborn Ladies as the Prince tells me often. I will not struggle to find a bride once I am King.”

“Robb told me he has given you the task of being King. I don’t know whether to give you my congratulations or my condolences.”

“I would like you to sit Casterly Rock in my stead until Caster’s second child comes of age. Robb and I have decided to keep Alyse’s law of succession in order; it will give the women of Westeros more power and equality. Women will no longer be a pawn to be played with.”

“I’d be honoured to rule in your stead.”

“Thank you, father.”

“You don’t have to wed again if you don’t want to, Tyran. If you would rather remain unwed as your Grandfather did, then nobody would blame you.”

“I will remarry,” Tyran decided. “I shall find a bride once the war is won. Maybe I will find a love truer than the one Alyse and I shared.”

“I hope you will.”

“We ride in five days, you and mother and the children included. We cannot bear to leave you with the threat of invasion. The war will not last long. Your lives shouldn’t be in danger when we ride; we are quite the large host.”

“Almost one hundred thousand men. Will you need that many?”

“Robb hopes to send the Dornish and the men from the Vale to take the capitol with Ser Gerion in their lead and risk the lives of the men who are not family before we send men from the west and the north.”

“The Lannister’s and Stark’s have not ridden in battle before.”

“Joffrey was unwise to name us different Wardens then.”

“I dare say he was.”

Tyran smiled. “So the wolves and the lions fight alongside one another rather than against one another in the first time in history. There will be a bountiful of ballads about this, I am sure.”

“I hope you’ll be around to hear them.”

“I will,” Tyran reassured. “We will all live and if not, there will be men aplenty to take my lead. If I should die, I would like you to be King father. You cannot allow it to fall to Robb; he will not rule the Kingdoms well. He lacks the mindset that you and I are fortunate enough to acquire.”

***

 _King Tyrion_ had quite a nice sound to it. It would certainly be the ultimate claim to piss off his father and to prove to everybody that he was not the monster of Casterly Rock as everybody had rumoured him to be when he was a little boy. He would laugh in the faces of the men who had mocked him, of the women who had sniggered about him. If his son could not be King, then he would be, and he would be a better King than anybody would expect.

“Who would you name Hand if not?”

“I would like you to sit at Casterly, so you cannot be my Hand. Alayne and Gerion have agreed to wed once the war is won and sit at Highgarden – though it worries me how little persuading they needed-”

“-Gerion... He’s the tall golden haired one, isn’t he?”

“Not the other one, no: he is our fifth cousin perhaps more than that. Gerion sits council sometimes-”

“-The one with three bastards-”

“-They are all sons and will provide good heirs to Highgarden-”

“-And perhaps the worst suitor you could have chosen for my daughter.”

“Father, they are both quite fond of each other and he protects and loves her well. If you were to dine with him one night, or go riding with him, you might grown fond of him-”

“-My daughter will not marry a man older than her own brother. He’s twenty, is he not?”

“Barely.”

“Five years older than Alayne. I don’t care if you like him: he is a twenty-year-old man with three bastard sons, who murdered innocent men for gold-”

“-Father, Alayne was joyous when I told her. Have you seen her comfortable since she arrived at Winterfell? Let them marry; I know he will do well for her.”

 _Too young. Too pretty. Too innocent._ Gerion Lannister he called himself. His mother a bastard with the name Hill, his father unknown. The only claim he had to be a Lannister was the one that Gerion had granted him with. It did not matter how lowborn he was; he had allowed Robb to wed a girl who lived in an inn. But Grace did not have three bastards, one scarcely a decade younger than Alayne either. Alayne was _his_ daughter. His little girl he had cradled in his arms before her own mother. He would not allow that man to take her for his own.

“Alayne cannot marry him. I shall put an end to this before the night is over.”

“Father do not do this! She will-”

He didn’t want to hear the rest of it. Tyrion knew where she would find Alayne: in her chambers on the ground floor with the guards Tyran had given her. If Ser Gerion was at her door, it would only infuriate him more. _A guard. She would be marrying a guard._

When Tyrion arrived at his daughter’s door, two young men stood either side of Alayne’s door and not the young man.

“Is my daughter in there?” Tyrion demanded.

“Yes my Lord,” said the one on the right.

“Is she alone?”

“No my Lord.”

Tyrion was losing his patience. “Well who is she with? Now answer me honestly good Ser. Guards are never useful when they’re dead.”

There was unease in his voice. “With Ser Gerion.”

***

Alayne was glad to be betrothed to Gerion. She might not love him as he loved her, or how she loved King Lucian, he was the kindest man she could be wedding: the only person who she could admit to what had happened to her. He had saved her from drowning herself, saved her from carrying Ser Deryn’s child any longer than she had done. She was grateful to him, indebted even. Was that why she agreed to marry him, so she could open her legs to him to show her gratitude? Alayne did not strike herself to be that sort of person and though she tried not to dwell on it, she could not help but find herself returning to the wonder of why she was marrying Ser Gerion.

She lay with her head on his lap, as he leaned against the frame of her bed. He played with her hair, twisting it around his finger, telling her how beautiful and soft it was. She could not stop making the comparison with Gerion and Lucian, and then Gerion and Ser Deryn. Ser Deryn would grab her hair, Lucian would brush it and Gerion play with it. It frightened her to wonder if on her wedding night she would cease up and not allow Gerion to consummate their marriage. She hoped the war would last longer than predicted, but then hated herself for it because if that was to happen, it would likely mean something terrible. She would rather be anxious on her wedding night than have one of her brother’s die on the battlefield, or even Gerion himself.

She wondered how her luck had came true, that she was indeed marrying Gerion instead of a higher born man. _Highgarden, they wish to repay him for risking his life. They do not think he will survive. This is why._

“Gerion,” Alayne began softly. “Gerion how did you manage to persuade my brother’s to let us wed?”

“It was Tyran’s idea,” Gerion explained. “He told Robb that if we wed, you would forgive him for abandoning you because you’re so in love with me.”

Alayne chuckled lightly. “I think you got that the wrong way round.”

“No I didn’t.” With his forefinger, he curled her hair around his finger and pushed it back against her face. “You’re very beautiful.” She sat upright, rubbing the back of her neck. “Is there something the matter?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“I suppose you’re right Alayne... Alayne if there’s something else you want to talk to me about, you only need to ask.”

 _What happens if I won’t let you fuck me on our wedding night? What if I’m too frightened to ever accept you to my bed?_ A chill passed over her. She wondered if she could ever take another man to bed. She certainly wanted to take him to her bed, but what if it all got too much when it finally came down to it? What if he turned violent and forced her? _No, Gerion would never do that to me; he loves me._ She would never forgive Robb for leaving her, to leave her feeling like this: untrusting and filthy.

Alayne put a hand on her betrothed’s shoulder and closed her eyes. “I don’t want to be a bad wife to you.”

“The same goes for me.”

“I don’t want to _not_ be able to... I don’t want to be scared when it comes to the night.”

Gerion smiled. “We could always practice.”

To Alayne, she found it as a joke. To Gerion, he was being serious. He did not begin to laugh, he looked meaningful, almost embarrassed how that Alayne laughed.

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“You could always find out.”

“I’d like to try,” she admitted. “But would you stop if I asked? If I wanted to take a break?”

“Of course; I wouldn’t force you into it. We don’t have to do it today.”

It was better to get it over and done with: to face her fears before they built up into something even more dreadful than what she felt now.

Alayne moved her hand to the back of his neck and pressed their temples together, their noses brushing against each other’s gently. She could see the concentration in his eyes, the commitment. He had such beautiful eyes: the colour of the water at Blackwater on a warm day. She was close to kissing him too, if it had not been for the incessant knocking on her door.

“My Lady, your Lord father wishes to see you.”

She pulled away from Gerion and walked away from the bed. She had not done anything bad with Gerion, but she felt guilty all the same. Alayne walked to the window, pushing it open and allowing the wind to hit her face. Gerion called to let her father in as he tactfully pretended to read a book by her bedside. Alayne dared not turn around to her father, worried that if she looked at him he would see the truth. She had always been a terrible liar.

“What are you doing here?” Her father demanded of Gerion. “Get out.”

“Father he always comes to my chambers,” Alayne snapped. “Let him be.”

“You’re not to go near my daughter anymore. I’ve spoken to Tyran, you won’t have to wed him anymore.”

Alayne lashed her body from the window, pushing herself off the cold, stone work and raced towards her father. “What?”

“He’s too low born for you-”

“-Excuse me, my Lord, but it was decided by our future _King_ that Alayne and I shall wed, and I have heard no complaints on her behalf.”

“I do not care what my son decides; Alayne is my daughter and it is my job as her father to decide who she weds.”

“No it is not!” Alayne exclaimed. “I am my own person. Do I not get any say in this?”

“Alayne, my sweetling, I shall find you a better husband than this man. One that will treat you better and love you.”

“I do love her, Lord Tyrion-”

***

Tyrion started to laugh. “Love? What do you know about love? Perhaps the only thing you love about my daughter is what she will give to you on her wedding night-”

“- _Father_!”

“-I will be long in the ground before you wed my daughter, _Ser Gerion_ if that even is your name. She is too good for you, too Highborn for you, too sweet and not in the mindset for you to wed and take advantage of her. She was put through a great ordeal while she was in King’s Landing, which you know _nothing_ about-”

“-He knows more than you! I want to marry Gerion because he understands what happened to me. Father, he _saved my life-_ ”

“It was Tyran who rode to you-”

Alayne shook her head at her father, and moved across the room to stand beside the man who had not risen off his chair when Tyrion had entered the room. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Father I will marry Gerion. I don’t want anyone else. I want _him_.”

“Alayne, you will feel the same about the next man we chose to wed you too.”

She scoffed. “No I won’t. Father if you won’t let me marry him then I will stay unwed. I will not have another man abuse me and take me to his bed at his choosing without my consent. I know Gerion will be a good husband to me. Perhaps if you got to know him, he will not be all he seems to you. Of course he has his faults: he’s arrogant and he has three illegitimate sons but he loves them and he cared for their mother’s when they were together. Perhaps – perhaps if the two of you went riding together – or – or if Gerion dined with us one night: just you and mother and me and Gerion without Tyran and Robb and the children, and you will see that Gerion is a great man for me to marry!”

 _She keeps the truth from me. What was the truth? Did he have a bastard on her?_ But Tyrion could not believe that his daughter would be foolish enough to do such thing and could not believe that she would be so willing to accept a man to bed if she would not even dine with one and his family without feeling panicked. Gerion could have saved her from abuse in King’s Landing, Tyrion supposed, and she had fallen for his gallant act of kindness.

Tyrion judged the man who wanted to marry his daughter. “Tonight you will dine with my wife and I. If you do not appease me, you will not have Alayne’s hand or my blessing.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Gerion answered.

***

Tyrion returned to their chambers. Sansa had been changed by the handmaidens provided by her son to be dressed suitable for dinner. She was applying scent when Tyrion arrived. She could tell that her husband was in a bad mood by the mutterings under his breath: the cursing and his blame for the Gods, and how he grabbed the flagon of Dornish red and filled his cup to the brim with shaking hands, purely out of rage.

“Tyrion, what’s happened?”

He slammed his cup on the table. “Did you know our sons have made the agreement that Gerion and Alayne will wed? I thought it was just rumours – something they both concocted to keep Gerion on their side. Did you know about this?”

“Alayne told me a little while back. Believe me, Tyrion, I disapprove to this betrothal as much as you do.”

He was more irritated than angry. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“What is there to say? Tyrion, she _wants_ to marry him.”

“She claims he saves her life.”

“He might have done. We don’t know what happened to Alayne in King’s Landing, for all we know Gerion might well have saved her from guards beating her or from Alyse humiliating her. Alayne might feel safe around him and she wants to wed him so he will protect her. How did _she_ seem about the betrothal?”

***

She defended the idea of her betrothal to Ser Gerion. Alayne did not seem upset at the prospect of marrying him, nor did she seem angry at her brother and Tyrion himself for leaving her. Sansa moved towards their bed to put on her shoes, and sat down as she fiddled with the buckles, shaking as Tyrion was.

“She wants to marry him.”

“Then _let_ her. Come here,” he did as his wife asked to and sat himself on the bed beside her. “Listen to me, Tyrion: we were fortunate that Alayne took her first betrothal to Lucian well and she said she only accepted it because she wanted to be Queen and be more powerful than her brother’s. Gerion won’t give her any power, he may die on the battlefield, but she will be granted Highgarden regardless. If she didn’t genuinely want to marry Gerion, she wouldn’t beg you to see reason. He’ll give her no power, no lands, no gold and three natural sons. We don’t know what happened between them both in King’s Landing, but if marrying below Alayne makes her happy, then let her be.”

Tyrion wanted to agree with Sansa. All he wanted was for his Alayne to be happy again, back to normal and bickering with her brother’s. He knew all that was lost and left behind in the Red Keep. She might regain it again in Highgarden, Tyrion didn’t know. He would not send his daughter away to a stranger. He had allowed that with his son, and it had not ended well.

“Do you like him?”

“I scarce know him.”

“I’ve told him to sup with us tonight, to prove himself that he is worthy of our daughter.”

His wife laughed, kissing him lightly on the lips. “When did you tell him to come?”

“Alayne knows what time we dine.”

“Do we have time?”

Tyrion pushed his wife back onto the bed to the sound of her laughing. “We always have time.”

***

“Are you nervous?” Alayne wondered as Gerion escorted her from her chambers, linked in arm, to the solar which belonged to her parent’s. They had the second biggest chambers in the castle, the largest belonging to the Lord of Winterfell and his family.

“Not really,” Gerion said.

“Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“No.”

She could not have been in more disbelief. Gerion was trying to persuade Alayne’s parents that they _should_ be wed – they had the power to end the betrothal and send Alayne to a stranger. That thought terrified her. The strange man might not be kind like Gerion, nor brave and chivalrous and make her feel safe. The unknown man would not know about King’s Landing. He would not love her as Gerion loved Alayne.

“Gods help us then.”

Gerion laughed, squeezing Alayne’s arm through his own. “You look lovely tonight, my darling.”

“So do you; it’s nice to see you out of red for a change.”

“Blue matches your eyes.”

She might have kissed him. _Gods she wanted to kiss him._ The girls from Winterfell would stare as he walked by, but oft he was walking with Tyran, and even though Alayne was his sister she had to admit that her brother was handsome. She remembered when she told him so when she was five or six-years-old and Robb had been disgusted, claiming them to be kissing and sharing each other’s bed and fighting as he had encountered their parents once doing. It was not until Alayne was older she knew what fighting her parents did, and she really wished she didn’t.

They crossed paths with her mother’s siblings: Rickon and Arya. Both looked quite similar, the main difference being the hair length and hair colour. Both looked awfully different to Alayne’s mother and wondered if either of them looked like her Grandparent’s.

“I hope we’ll be invited to your wedding,” Uncle Rickon said with a smile.

“If there even is a wedding,” Gerion sighed. “Her father – to say it lightly – _disapproves_ of our betrothal.”

Neither looked particularly surprised. “Do you think our parents would be thrilled to learn of _their_ marriage if they were still alive? Point out to them that their marriage isn’t exactly ideal, but look how happy they are.”

Alayne wasn’t sure if their marriage was happy. She knew there was little love between them, though they raised three children and loved them and ‘fought’ in bed sometimes. Alayne was close to doing so today with Gerion, she would not have minded too much either.

“How hasn’t your brother’s persuaded Rickon or Arya to marry anyone?”

Alayne laughed. “Have you seen Rickon’s temper or Arya’s skill with a sword? I think they’re too frightened to.”

“But they’re not threatened by me?”

“They know how lovely you are.”

“I killed men for gold.”

“Don’t mention that to my mother and father,” Alayne teased. “Mention nice things: how you returned to your family in their time of need without asking for anything in return-”

“-To which they’ll point out I’m receiving Highgarden _and_ you.”

“How you’re wilfully risking your life to lead men out onto the ships in Blackwater Bay to take the Red Keep. I know how great you are. I’ll make them see reason.”

“And if they don’t? What will you do?”

“My brother’s have promised us _both_ Highgarden. They can’t have two sets of Wardens. They’d give it to you over me though, leaving me marrying someone rich and ‘worthy’ who won’t be as good of a man as you,” the ever present fear struck through her, and she spun around, clinging onto Gerion’s doublet. “Don’t let them marry me to somebody else. Please, you have to fight for me! I can’t marry someone else – what if they don’t understand?”

He consoled her, restrained her and kissed her to calm her down. It was a surprising kiss, one he had not given her since she attacked him in the campsite. The kiss did console Alayne, and she stopped fighting him to kiss her back, but before she could really enjoy it, he withdrew with a smile.

“Thank you for not beating me.”

Alayne laughed, the sound ringing through the halls of Winterfell and she took Gerion’s arm, rested her head on his forearm, and ascended the tower stairs to dine with Alayne’s parents.

***

Sansa didn’t know if her husband was angrier at the betrothal because it had not been his decision, or if he was more angry because it was his daughter being sent away to Highgarden: the furthest place she could be from Winterfell that wasn’t Dornish land, that they would seldom see her and be a family. Sansa agreed that Alayne was too highborn for Gerion that she would be taking too much on with his three bastard sons and bad reputation but the smile on Alayne’s face when she entered their solar, laughing with Gerion changed Sansa’s opinion entirely. Gerion made Alayne happy. That was all Sansa wanted for her daughter.

It was Sansa who chose the food they would be dining on: simple poached egg and roasted chicken with a side of vegetables, flagon of wine and water and a small selection of cakes. She did not want an extravagant meal because she didn’t want the meal to last too long in case either men got too drunk and said something to each other that would start an argument and cancel the betrothal before the sky grew dark.

“Mother,” Alayne greeted. “Father. Thank you for letting Gerion dine with us.”

“I hope you like chicken, Gerion,” Sansa said, “it’s Alayne’s favourite.”

“The food in Winterfell is always lovely, my Lady,” Gerion answered. He took a seat opposite Sansa, next to Alayne and across from Tyrion. Her husband sat back in his chair, swirling his wine in his cup. Sansa pursed her lips, awaiting for Tyrion to say something to Gerion, but it was the latter who spoke first. “My Lord,” was all Gerion said to Tyrion.

Tyrion muttered something before taking the knife from the chicken and slicing off a segment. “So?” Tyrion demanded. “Haven’t you got something to say to me?”

“ _Tyrion_ ,” Sansa reprehended.

“Father, don’t be rude.”

“What would you like me to say, my Lord?” Gerion asked.

“Why you think you’re good enough for my daughter. I’ll need a lot of persuading; you’re seldom a bastard compared to her.”

“ _Tyrion_!”

“Father!”

Tyrion shrugged, sipping his wine. “Someone had to say it.”

Gerion shuffled in his chair anxiously, choosing to pour himself a glass of water rather than a cup of wine. He poured Alayne some too, and set it back on the table. Gerion did not reach for any food.

“I met Alayne in King’s Landing when Tyran rode into the yard. She was with four guards; one had his hand on his sheath, ready to pull out on her as if looking for an excuse to murder her. I asked people at court who her guards were: Ser Deryn, Ser Anton and two common men knighted for their work at taking Winterfell from Stannis. I thought they looked after her until one of Queen Cersei’s handmaidens told me otherwise... It didn’t take long for Tyran and I to realise Alayne had been treated like shit at the capitol and Tyran assigned me to be her guard. I’ve protected her with my sword for the past two moons. I intend to protect her with my cloak.”

Tyrion laughed. “With what cloak? You don’t belong to a house.”

“Father!”

“Tyrion, perhaps you’ve had too much wine-”

“-No, it’s fine, Lady Sansa. I know what I am. My mother was a bastard, my father raped her and I’m a bastard of the Westerlands like her with no land, claim or gold. I won’t pretend that I had a particularly _hard_ upbringing; we lived in a comfortable house provided for by Lord Tywin, and my Uncle Kevan looked after us as well until I left home to travel the Free Cities and that’s where I made my gold. I’ve never been able to kill the man who raped my mother, but I can kill men like him: monsters who rape innocent women. I’m not ashamed of it. I’d do it to any man: highborn, lowborn, royal blood or bastard born.”

Perhaps it was not the ideal tale to tell at dinner, but it did not seem to faze Tyrion entirely.

“My father’s household guards took my first wife before my eyes. If I gave you the names and told you to murder them, would you?”

“Yes.”

“I took my wife. Would you murder me?”

“ _Tyrion_.”

“ _Father_.”

“That depends,” Gerion said coolly.

“She never told me not to.”

“Well did she enjoy it?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Do you know the man who raped your mother?”

“Only by name.”

“Who was he?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Was he highborn? A Lord, maybe?”

“Tyrion, that’s enough,” Sansa reprehended. “Don’t question him on something he’s clearly uncomfortable about. I’m sorry Gerion; my husband is clearly a bit drunk.”

“It’s fine, my Lady,” he said kindly.

***

Gerion reminded Tyrion of a young Jaime: handsome, good with a sword and the women, charming, gallant, vengeful, and murderous and had three bastard children. Gerion was not an awful person, he did not seem to have any intention to hurt his daughter, nor did he seem to want anything else from her.

“Do you love my daughter?”

He watched Gerion and Alayne exchange looks, and Gerion nodded. “Yes I do.”

“So do I,” Tyrion sighed. “Too much I suppose. I never wanted her to marry Lucian Baratheon, but Alayne was indignant she would. When she was five she demanded a pure white horse, and though they were not easy to find, I got her one. When she was seven she wanted to convert to the Old Gods, I didn’t want her to, but she got her own way. She managed to persuade my Lord father to hose a tourney for Tyran’s first wedding. She’s very persuasive. She always gets her way. If she wants to wed you, she’ll do it with or without my consent. Do you want to marry Gerion, Alayne?”

“I do, father,” Alayne smiled. “I don’t want to wed anyone else.”

“You’re still young and beautiful, you could have any man in the Seven Kingdoms if you so desired.”

“I don’t desire any other man in the Seven Kingdoms but Gerion. We’d be good together father, I promise you.”

Tyrion looked squarely across the table at Gerion. “I don’t like you; I think you’re a smug and arrogant little bastard and you remind me to much of my brother to tolerate you, but you clearly have a rare respect for women that neither of my son’s unfortunately possesses. But I swear by the Old Gods and the New, that if you _ever_ fail to be good to Alayne, then I will cut your throat in the middle of the night. Do you understand me?”

“Of course.”

He smiled, and Tyrion lifted the sharp knife from the platter. “Then let’s eat.”


	42. Last Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb regrets decisions while Tyran regrets his actions worse.

Perhaps it was not a good omen that three days before they were due to ride south the snow fell from the sky as it had done in the middle of winter, as opposed to the beginning of autumn where previous to that day, the sun had been warm and pleasant. Robb cursed when he walked to the window in his chambers and could not see from it due to the thick blanket of snow that fell from the sky. Robb closed the wooden panelling and climbed back into bed. It was much past dawn, the rest of the castle wide awake for the day ahead. Grace had left the bed to feed the children so Robb was left alone, cold and naked underneath the cotton bed sheets.

Some days he wished he never started this war. He should have stayed at King’s Landing longer, then rode to Winterfell; he never had the chance to mourn the death of his closest friend. He didn’t have the chance to attend the burial or pay his respects. Robb had taken his household and fled the city while his body was still warm, the moment that the bells began to ring in the city. He should never have left his sister alone in the city, but it had been the only opportunity for Tyran to ride to King’s Landing. How was Robb supposed to know Alyse would summon him?

Robb’s squire dressed him but the Lord of Winterfell passed up the opportunity to break his fast, merely grabbing a handful of dates and picking at them as he walked through the halls. The yard was alive with horses being readied for the journey, saddles being collected and the four litters being assembled. Robb had a new horse to ride on: a ginormous brown stallion he would arrive to battle upon, would be draped in the Stark colours with Robb’s new Greatsword in its sheath. Equipment wise, Robb was ready for the battle, but he knew he was still a green boy and barely of age. He did not know how to fight a war.

It was a problem left to other men: Tyran, his father, the Prince of Dorne and Lord Arryn. As long as he was alive at the end of it, Robb considered it a victory.

They would probably all be at a meeting: Tyran and the aforementioned men. None of them bothered to summon Robb since he denounced himself as King. It was an offence, but not one Robb took to heart. They would win the throne; they outnumbered the crown four men to one man. Ridiculous statistics. All the planning wasn’t necessary; it was impossible for them not to win the war.

The distance from the shared chambers of his children to the one Robb dwelled in with Grace was further than it had been at the Red Keep. In the time it took for Robb to arrive at the chambers, he had finished what he thought was a decent amount of food. The Septa sat on her own in the corner and Robb dismissed her; he wished to be alone with his children.

Or specifically, he wished to be with Ned.

He pulled Ned out of his crib and onto his lap. He was a large boy – larger than his sister. Robb always insisted that Ned be given the first of Grace’s milk as a babe. They all told Robb how much Ned looked like him: the same hair, same blue eyes, round face and playful grin. Robb hoped that Ned would become the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms – better than his Uncle Ser Jaime, Prince Oberyn, Ser Arthur Dayne and men of the Kingsguard. That Ned would be a better rider than any man, the cleverest of the Realm and produce a profusion of heirs for Winterfell: children to be bartered with other Houses. For once, Robb wanted to have something or be better than his older brother and he saw Ned as his way to win. Of course Caster might grow up to be as good of a person as his father, as handsome and courteous and strong, but would he have what really counted? The skill of riding a horse, wielding a sword or hammer or spear? Robb doubted it; Tyran disliked violence. He had not killed a man – not to Robb’s knowledge anyway. But neither had Robb, but that could soon be changed.

Robb bounced Ned on his lap and looked across at the other three cots. Lyanna had pulled herself up, gripping onto the edge, bouncing on the mat, calling for her father in her high-pitched, childish voice. Robb pretended not to hear her. But Lyanna’s pleas for her father woke the other two up. Robb did not want to deal with Serena as much as he didn’t wish to attend to William. So Robb pulled Lyanna roughly out of her crib under his arm and put her on his lap too, next to her brother.

Grace did not have a favourite child, she claimed to love all four of her children equally. Robb had his preferences and oddly enough it ranked by their age: Ned, Lyanna, Serena and then William. Robb blocked out the quiet cries of his deformed son, whispering into his firstborn’s ear as he allowed Lyanna to suckle on his finger. He should have stuck with the two children he was given, should not have encouraged Grace for a third or even fourth. William would not aspire to anything. Serena could not fill Lyanna’s shadow.

“Papa!” Lyanna beamed. “Papa! Papa!”

Lyanna was his darling, but he did not have the affection for Lyanna that his father Tyrion had for his sister Alayne. Their father had argued with Robb about Alayne wedding Gerion, had been furious at Robb for a time after leaving her. She had always been his favourite. It was a puzzle to Robb why his father would prefer a daughter, with no lands or claim to her name, over his first born son: the Lord of the West, or his second born son: the Lord of Winterfell. But everybody was different and the two men perceived their daughters very differently. Lyanna would become the ruling Princess of Dorne once Princess Arianne died. He had not even agreed with a man for Serena’s hand yet, the likeliest contender being Tyran’s son or a Lord from Volantis who had offered twelve ships for his daughter’s hand in marriage once she came of age, but he would not allow his youngest daughter to become the future Queen of Westeros through wedding her cousin when his eldest daughter would only rule Dorne. He would like to see the Stark’s sit on the throne, and perhaps if something were to befall Tyran...

_Don’t think things like that. Don’t wish your brother dead. You gave up the crown. You gave up being King. You’ve promised it to Tyran: a man who will be a better King than you could ever aspire to be._

But Robb always wanted what he couldn’t have.

***

Tyran knew he was going senile; men shouldn’t stay up all night finding a Queen. Men should go out, dance with pretty women, give them their laurels at tourneys and wed them and bed them. Tyran was unlike most men, and he went about to find his bride by studying heritage lines, books, documents and notes from all of the Seven Kingdoms, aspiring to find a wife who would be fertile and be a good Queen. He had one name written on the parchment:

_Alyse Baratheon._

And it had been a mistake to name her. At the end of the night after adding only two more names to his list, Tyran scrunched up the parchment in his hand and threw it into the fire and took glee in watching it burn to a crisp. He had one more full day at Winterfell until they would start their ride to King’s Landing. Tyran knew he should be planning for a battle, not planning for a Queen.

He expressed his concerns to his father, who laughed. “Hold a tourney a few weeks after your coronation, find a beautiful girl and give her your laurel.”

“I would never win a tourney.”

“Who would dare unhorse you if you’re King?”

“My brother? Rickon, Gerion, Jon, _Arya-_ ”

“-Then don’t let them compete. There’s a woman who will make a good Queen and a good mother to Cas, it would not take you long to find her; you’re a good person, a handsome man, rich and to-be King. The only fault I could find is that you’re too much like your Grandfather for your own good.”

Tyran shook his head. “He would know what to do.”

“You don’t have to re-wed; he never did.”

“Yes I do,” Tyran disagreed. “I am eighteen; I need more heirs for the throne and Casterly. I cannot have just one son: Lord Caster of Casterly Rock, King Caster of the Seven Kingdoms. What if Caster is unable to produce children? He will have no heirs and the crown would fall to Robb. I certainly do not want to see _him_ on the Iron Throne.”

“Cas is a _Lannister_ : fertile and fair. Marry him young if you’re worried-”

“-I will always worry, father, _especially_ about Caster. Fetch him for me.” He added to the closest servant who bowed and left the hall. “What am I to do?”

“You’re only eight-and-ten, you will remain fertile for a long time. Worry about this once the war is one. I’ll help you.” Caster’s wet nurse Jasmine arrived with the little Lord, who Tyran pulled onto his lap. “I’m pleased one of my son’s loves his children.”

“You doubt Robb loves Ned?”

“Ned is not the son I refer to.”

Tyran pursed his lips. “Every parent has a favourite child and a least favourite child. He has four heirs and three of them are wasted.”

“Don’t be bitter,” Tyrion reprehended. “You’re as bad as your sister used to be discussing her desire for children.”

“You dined with Gerion the other night. What do you make of him?”

“Not a lot. Though he’s clearly fond of Alayne, and she likes him well I suppose. What do you make of him?”

“I am very fond of him. I would not betroth him to my sister if I did not hold him in high regard.”

“Alayne will not have to worry about having heirs for Highgarden; Gerion’s proved he’s _quite_ fertile.”

“Father, I will not hear anymore of this. Gerion is a good father to his sons. It is not ideal he has three bastards; they could become competitors for Highgarden when the time comes, but I plan to give them each a castle, land and gold once they each turn six-and-ten, and his eldest son is sweet and I do not think much of a threat to any children my sister bares claim to Highgarden. There will be many castles spare once this war is won, they can each have one if they prove to be worthy.”

“Let’s hope it’s not Winterfell or Casterly.”

His father left without uttering another word, but his words stuck in Tyran’s mind.

***

The Queen wondered if she should write to Tyran, informing him that he had a child on her. _He would accuse me of lying; say that it is another man’s._ Alyse would not dare take another man, feeling that if she did so it would offend the Gods. She did not mean to have a bastard as much as she meant to fall in love with Tyran.

She had killed Helena Tyrell, she had killed her own brother and sentenced countless people to death, but there was something about the babe in her belly that could not cause her to take its life. Maybe she thought it was her final connection to Tyran, that if she kept it he would be complied to wed her to save her honour and he would fall in love with her and save her life and love them all. But Alyse knew that would never happen, was a fool to even think so.

As she walked the walls of the Red Keep, watching the ships dock in from Lys and Meereen and Qarth: all with thousands of men to defend the city.

“They provide us with twenty ships each, your Grace,” Mace Tyrell informed her. “Each holds one thousand men. That makes sixty thousand men from the Free Cities, and as far as I am aware, the men in the north do not know we have them as our allies. They can have Dorne and the east and Pentos, we’ll kill them all before they can even see the Red Keep.”

“Don’t kill them all,” Alyse said quickly, “spare Tyran Lannister.”

He looked at her confused. “Your Grace?”

“His child grows inside me,” she snapped. “I want to watch his face when he sees me take a knife and cut its throat and force him to hold our dead baby.”

She could sense her Grandfather was nervous, but it was nothing that Tyran didn’t deserve. She would kill him last. Force him to watch as the men raped his mother and sister, as they tortured his brother and father, parading their mutilated corpses around the Red Keep. Alyse might keep his son alive, or he might make him choose between the lives of his family or his only son. She wanted to make him suffer for leaving her, for abandoning her and his baby in the Red Keep and starting a war against her.

“Is that wise, your Grace?”

“No,” Alyse agreed. “But I am not wise; I am ruthless. What was it they once called me? Alyse the Wicked. They called my sister Alysanne the Just. I bet you wish it was her stood here instead of me, Grandfather. Alysanne and Lucian would both open their gates to the rebels and invite them to break their fast. Not I. Father did not teach me to be weak or forgiving.”

“The people will not forget this, your Grace,” Mace Tyrell said nervously.

She smiled sweetly at her Grandfather, and she noted that she put him at ease. “And neither will you.”

He should not have been put at ease – should not have let his guard down for even an instant. He learned his lesson though; he certainly did not look at ease as his body hit the rocks of Blackwater Bay and was washed up by the sea.

***

Again, Sansa was to leave Winterfell with no intention of returning.

The first time she left, she was a little girl: eleven-years-old and naive to the world. Filled with joy of marrying who she thought was the beautiful and graceful Prince Joffrey, she had been thrilled at the opportunity to live at the Red Keep and be his Princess. This time, however, Sansa was thirty-one, a married woman with three children with the harrowing prospect that one would die in battle to the hands of men who had once been their friends. If they won the war, Sansa would live at House Lannister’s great castle Casterly Rock to rule in stead for their son. The prospect of living out the rest of her days at the Lannister stronghold did not appease Sansa. Although the weather would be more temperate, the west more comfortable to live in, Casterly Rock was not the castle she had been raised in with her three brothers and sister, mother and father and friends. They may have draped her in a crimson and gold cloak, changed her name to Lady Lannister, had her birth three children originally of the name Lannister, but the stronghold of the lion’s was not her home. Winterfell was and always would be her home.

They were riding on the morrow. Sansa woke late, her head dizzy and feeling nauseas and promptly emptied her stomach from the previous night’s meal. It must be the sudden change in rich foods as opposed to the small scrapings she had been eating on the road. Being ill did not bother her too much; she could wipe the sick from her mouth and chew mint leaves to dismiss the taste, it was the upset of leaving the North which caused her most illness.

Sansa was tempted to visit the crypts, but to say what? The tomb of her mother and brother were empty; Lady Catelyn’s body had never been recovered from The Twins and neither had Robb’s. Apparently they burned Robb’s body after mutilating it and threw her mother’s in the river. Sansa was past mourning for them now that the Frey’s were dead; Arya had sought revenge big enough for the pair of them, but Sansa could not help but wish it had been due to her own hand.

Arya visited Sansa after she had been changed by handmaidens. Arya never needed assistance; constantly garbed in dark colours, her shoulder length brown hair always hung loose, always messy as it had been when she was a little girl. Sansa might have scolded Arya for it twenty years ago, but it was a pleasing sight to see her messy little sister arrive in her bedchambers.

“What are you doing today?” Arya asked Sansa.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said quietly. “The men are planning the ride and battle. Alayne is showing Gerion the Godswood again-”

“-I bet that’s not all she’s showing him,” Arya added with a devilish grin.

“Don’t let Tyrion hear you say that.”

The younger sister bowed her head. “How could you marry him?”

“I didn’t choose to, Arya. They had just murdered our mother and brother – I didn’t even know we were getting married until the morning of it! It wasn’t easy living in the Red Keep as their hostage.”

“But you still married him.”

“I didn’t have a choice. The Gods only know what would have happened if I didn’t. Tyrion protected me.”

“How could a _dwarf_ protect you?”

“I’m alive now, aren’t I? As are our children. He might be a Lannister but he kept me and my children alive, and he’s been kind to me and I’m grateful for that. You don’t know how hard it was for me to live as Joffrey’s betrothed, but then to be cast aside when Margaery arrived. I feared that Joffrey would just have me killed until I married Tyrion, then I knew Lord Tywin couldn’t bear to spare me once I’d married his son.”

“You make it sound like I had an easier life than you. I was a servant, a captive – I saw our brother and Grey Wind be paraded around The Twins, then I was taken in by the Brotherhood without Banners, held by the Hound, sailed to Braavos, became a murderer, was assaulted, murdered men after and while I fucked them, lost my _daughter_ and a man I enjoyed the company of. You had clothing and gold and food for all three of your children while Jon had _nothing_ but some rags other women gave me out of pity and the milk from my breast.”

“I’m sorry you lost your daughter, I’m sorry you lost Gendry and I’m sorry that you had nothing, but let’s not make it into a competition. We both lead awful lives after our father died, but I lead mine in luxury. You can’t resent me for that. At least you were free.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue, but Arya said nothing of it. “Robb and Tyran are very brave for starting this war.”

“Foolish,” Sansa corrected.

“They’re avenging our family.”

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “But Joffrey, Cersei, Tywin and the others are dead. The Queen is a seventeen-year-old little girl who was as good as a daughter to me. They do not need this war.”

“It takes the Lannister’s off the throne.”

Sansa blinked at her. “My _son_ Tyran will be King. He is still a Lannister-”

“-With Stark blood! Sansa! Tyran will be King, then your Grandson Caster. They have Stark blood in their veins, as much a wolf as a lion. Tyran would change his name-”

“-He’s too proud for that, Arya. He’ll stay a Lannister; have Caster marry a Dornish girl to keep them on our side and stay on the throne for the inevitable future. The only chance the Stark’s have of taking the throne is if Tyran dies and Robb agrees to be King.”

“Don’t you want to see our family’s name on the throne?”

“It makes no matter to me if Stark or Lannister sit the throne. Tyran will make a good King and will not forget who his family is. Listen, Arya, when this war is done, you and Jon will live with us in Casterly Rock.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I don’t want to be a Lady of a castle – or live with one! The Stark’s might not take the throne, but I want a respectable rule in the realm. I am to be a member of Tyran’s Kingsguard.”

Sansa let out a laugh. “Seriously?”

“ _Seriously_. Sansa, you’ve seen me fight, you know that I’m good. I burned down the Twins with my son, we’re both damn good with a sword and Tyran is my blood. I would serve him, and his son without question.”

“It’s not my decision to make. I am not Queen.” Sansa detected a flicker in Arya’s eyes, but could not tell what she meant. “Talk to Tyran, he’ll need as many worthy men – _people_ – people in his Kingsguard as possible. He’d be an idiot to turn you down.”

“I thought you’d stop me, remind me I’m a Lady and shouldn’t be fighting wars.”

The red head shook her head. “You’re more likely to do as I say than Robb. Rickon wants to join the Kingsguard too, so does Robb and Gerion but they have land to hold now. There’s never been a Stark in the Kingsguard. Father and Mother would be proud if there were two.”

She saw a smile form on her little sister’s lips. “Even mother?”

“Especially mother. She’d be proud you’re going onto defend your nephew. You know her words: _family, duty, honour._ Arya, you’re fulfilling all three.”

“I miss her, and father and Robb and Jon and Bran. Why can’t we just go back to how everything was twenty years ago? When we were all alive and happy and together.”

“Because I messed things up by wanting to marry Joffrey.”

“ _No_ ,” Arya said sternly, grabbing her sister by her shoulders roughly. “Sansa, we went to King’s Landing because King Robert named father his hand, and we couldn’t get out of it! Father agreed to stay at the Red Keep because he learned his best friend’s life is at risk. If anyone’s to blame it was Cersei: she killed Jon Arryn, fucked her brother so he pushed Bran out the tower and started this whole _fucking_ war. It was not your fault. Please don’t blame yourself. Please don’t.”

Sansa stared past her sister and out of the window. Her bedchambers were at a high position in the castle, situated higher than the trees that grew inside the yard. She could feel the tears in her eyes, and Sansa began to shake.

“Make them pay,” Sansa snapped. “Make them pay for what they did to us.”

Arya pulled Sansa into her arms. “We will do. You know our words: _winter is coming_. Well we’re about to tell the whole of Westeros that the Stark’s are coming to beat their arses and fuck them with their swords. But Sansa, _you are not to blame for this_.”

Perhaps Sansa knew that Arya was right. She had pleaded for the lives of her father, her brother and mother. It had come to no avail. She oft wondered what would have happened if she died in the place of Robb, the Red Wedding never happened and Robb would take the Red Keep and kill them all and avenge the Stark’s. Sansa should have killed Joffrey herself, not Arya. So Sansa stared over her sister’s shoulder into the yard outside. She did not want to be a Lannister anymore. She was a Stark.

***

It was surreal it was finally happening: the war they had been plotting for almost two years was finally about to begin. They would ride at dawn on the morrow, but Tyran suspected he would get little sleep. He was the commander in all of this: it was his war. They would call it Tyran’s Rebellion, or a better sounding name like Tyran’s Treachery. Soon he would be King, sit on the Iron Throne with a golden crown on his head as the golden banners of Lannister swayed in the breeze of the Throne Room. He would be King and all would be well.

In their final minutes of the meeting in the Great Hall, where Lord Tyran, Ser Gerion, the Prince of Dorne, the Lord of the Vale, Ser Rickon and Lord Tyrion sat around the table, drinking the wine provided for by the Prince of Dorne.

“May I hope this war has positive outcomes,” Tyran toasted, holding his cup in the air. “That few men as possible die, and that it is over, as predicted, in the moons turn: that Stark and Lannister and Arryn and Martell shall ride together and fight together for eternity that our houses ever be joined in matrimony and blood. Here is to a bright future for Westeros and the Realm.”

“Long live the King,” the Prince chanted.

“Long live the King,” the others echoed.

 _King Tyran_ might take some adjustment. But modestly and nobly, Tyran drank deep from the cup in his name, smacking his lips together, resting the cup back onto the table. He stood, watching the other men drink from their cup and the Prince of Dorne pour old Robert Arryn another cup. Tyran could scarce believe he had united these houses, all in the promise of revenge for members lost and husbands and wives for their children, and a peaceful country to live in.

It was magical.

“YOU BASTARD!”

Tyran had wondered why Robb had chosen to remain absent from their final war council and had suspected that his younger brother was too lazy.

The Lord of Winterfell was half dressed, his doublet half fastened with what Tyran could only suspect to be a letter flailing around in his hands. He eyed his younger brother suspiciously and was taken aback when Robb ceased him by his own doublet, pushing him backwards over the table, spilling three cups of wine and scattering the contents of the table.

“You put a babe on her! _You put a babe on her_?” Confused, Tyran began to squirm in his brother’s grasp. “How could you?”

“ROBB!” Tyran heard their father shout. “Release your brother!” But the Stark Lord would not comply. “ _ROBERT! RELEASE YOUR BROTHER_!”

At the mention of the name Robb had been branded with at birth prompted him to release his brother. Tyran jumped up, rubbing his neck where his younger brother’s fingernails had dug into it, drawing slight blood.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Tyrion flared.

“He put a babe in her!” Robb shouted. “Alyse Baratheon! Tyran put a babe in her!”

“Impossible,” Tyran snapped. “He’s lying.”

“I swear by the Old Gods and the New that Alyse Baratheon is with babe. She’s told the whole of fucking Westeros! Who else would be the father but you? One-and-a-half moons, she claims – you were in the Red Keep at the time! Couldn’t keep your cock in your breeches long enough, could you? It was Haelan Tyrell who wrote me-”

“-Haelan Tyrell _loathes_ us! Rickon killed his Uncle – his sister was murdered the day before our wedding! How could you believe what he writes?”

“BECAUSE MACE TYRELL WAS MURDERED!” The younger brother roared. “HE WATCHED ALYSE PUSH HIM FROM THE WALLS! YOU GOT HER WITH A CHILD YOU FUCKING FOOL!”

“SHE CANNOT BE WITH CHILD! FATHER – TELL HIM!”

“It cannot be true,” their father reasoned. “She was fed potions by Cersei-”

“-CERSEI IS DEAD! SHE IS NOT A CHILD! SHE WOULD STOP TAKING THEM!”

***

“CALM DOWN!” Tyrion yelled.

Tyrion had the better idea of dismissing the other Lord’s in their company. Though all of them were reluctant to leave, they politely did so, which left the two feuding brother’s and their impish father.

Robb was correct in believing that Alyse would stop taking drink from her Grandmother once Lucian was dead and Alyse soon to become Queen. Tyrion had been worried about such thing for a while, that his eldest son’s affair with the Queen would come back and haunt him. Getting her with babe was too much to believe though.

“Well what should we do?” Tyran snapped.

“What do you mean what will we do? This doesn’t change anything – NO TYRAN! WE ARE NOT SPARING HER-”

“-IF YOU ARE RIGHT THEN THAT IS MY CHILD INSIDE HER! I WILL NOT KILL IT!”

“ARE YOU SENILE OR JUST A FUCKING IDIOT? SHE COULD BE LYING-”

“-Alyse _loves_ me! She loves me more than you can understand, she swore to me she would never take another man to bed. You know what Alyse is like-”

“-Clearly not as well as you-”

“-She is honest, and when she says she will do something she does it. If she is with child, then it is mine. I will not kill her.”

“I will then,” Robb said coolly, “if you want the child, you cannot be King. There are people who support Alyse’s claim – _a lot of them_. If her child is second in line to the throne, do you think many of them would let Caster live? You’d have to make the decision-”

“- _Don’t-_ ”

“-Allow the trueborn son of yours and physcopath to live-”

“ _Robb-”_

“-Or the bastard of yours and a physcopath to live. You can’t have them both. Either kill Alyse and the bastard while it’s still inside her and take the throne for yours, or keep the babe and be exiled from Westeros, because I swear to the Gods Tyran, I will not allow her blood to remain alive. I want them all _dead_.”

Tyrion did not like to see his son’s fight. It was not how he and Sansa had raised them, but Tyrion was powerless when they began to fight.

It had started with Robb seizing Tyran when he entered the room, but began again when the former received a blow from the future King on the chin. Robb was quicker to retaliate, pushing Tyran against the table, climbing atop him and began punching his face all the while Tyran struggled underneath the weight of his brother, punching his back, stomach, chest, side and throat wherever he could reach. Somehow, they ended up colliding on the floor with Tyran having the upper hand, both of their faces bloody with Tyrion attempting to get between them, the nauseating smell of blood lingering in the air. Tyrion had seldom strength compared to his fully grown sons, but tried to pull Tyran off Robb, which resulted in Tyrion getting punched himself.

“YOU HIT FATHER!” Tyran shouted above Robb’s cursing.

Tyrion heard the crack of a bone, but saw nothing but the aftermath. Tyran had smashed Robb’s head against the bench, where the youngest brother lay unconscious in a puddle of blood.

“Tyran... What have you done?”

***

“It was an accident!”

The Lord of Casterly Rock had never been so frightened. One moment he had been fighting with Robb, using all his energy to attack his brother, but then Robb had hit their father. Tyran had not meant to smash his brother unconscious, but did violently push him to the side, against the hard wooden bench which he cracked his head on. Tyran was so frightened he could not move, barely able to speak. His throat closed up, his heart stopped and he thought he was going to be sick.

“Get a Maester!” Father demanded, dropping to his little stunted knees as he cradled the still body of his son. “NOW!”

Tyran did not respond; he stared at the body of his brother. He feared he had killed him. He was not moving, did not look like to be breathing either.

Their father hit Robb on the side of the face. He could see he was crying, evidently as terrified as Tyran that he was dead. Tyrion looked even smaller with Robb’s body slumped across his own, their father pulling at his hair with his chubby little fingers.

“GO!” Tyrion roared “GO! NOW! LEAVE!”

Tyran scrambled to his feet, shaking harder than a leaf but could not bring himself to move. Tyran might have had a clearer conscience if he had gone, did not hear the words from his brother’s lips but his father’s instead.

“ _Father..._ ”

Father was the first word Robb spoke.

Father was also the last.


	43. The End of an Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There had been good Kings and bad Kings but the Realm had never seen both.

She had been with her sister, as mindless as they had once been as young girls, laughing as they ate their lunch together: a variety of a platter, with meats and fish and fruit and honeyed cakes for after, washed down with a jug of warm, sweet honeyed milk. They recollected times at which they had been together as children: the time that Robb and Jon had gone to Wintertown with Theon in the dead of night and mother and father never discovered, or the time Summer and Nymeria stole food from the kitchens and the children blamed it on the regular dogs. Those days at Winterfell were some of the happiest in their lifetime, but lunch adding that day to one of the memories back, adding that day to one of the better. Sansa did not know that it would be the last day she would ever truly be happy.

“Can I tell you something?” Sansa asked with a grin as she broke off honeycomb. “I think I’m with child.”

“Is it Tyrion’s?”

“Of course it’s Tyrion’s – who elses would it be?”

“Why do you think you’re with child?”

Sansa shrugged, smiling down at herself as she traced the edge of the table with her forefinger. “I haven’t bled in three months. Maybe this is just wishful thinking, or the ride and the change in food and weather and the stress of this war!”

“You’re a great mother,” Arya smiled. “I’m so happy for you.”

It was then that Tyran burst through her door, covered in blood with his clothes ripped. Sansa jumped with panic, Arya literally froze.

“My poor baby,” Sansa soothed. “What’s happened to you?”

Thoughts and possibilities raced through Sansa’s mind, trying her best to remain calm. Her son was with cuts and bite marks on his handsome face. He was shaking too – if the marks on his face were not evidence enough that something awful had happened, the eldest Lannister boy’s behaviour was enough to prove there was something amiss. It frightened Sansa, that was all she was certain of, holding her son as he retched on her stone floor, shaking between sobs and outbursts of vomiting.

“Tyran, Tyran my sweetling what is it? My darling boy... What’s the matter?”

He began to sob into his mother’s skirts, dropping to the floor in his own vomit. His mother was petrified, stroking her son’s golden locks on comfort for him – but who was there to comfort her? Her sister looked as frightened as she felt. Had the castle been invaded? Had the Lannister’s turned on the Stark’s or the Martell’s or the Arryn’s? Sansa did not know.

“What’s happened? Hush, Tyran, what’s happened? My darling, what’s happened?”

“I – I – Mother! Mother help me... It wasn’t meant to – I’m sorry.”

“Hush my boy, now tell me.”

“I k-killed him!” He choked.

“Hush, hush my darling.”

“I didn’t mean to! Mo – Mother I didn’t – I swear I didn’t mean to!”

It was impossible to keep her calm as Sansa dropped down onto the comfort of her bed, Tyran still at her knees on a ball on the floor in tears. With a glance exchanged between her and her sister, Arya left the room as silent as a ghost, blocked by the sounds of Tyran screaming into his mother’s dress, battering the wooden posts of her bed, twisting his hair around his fingers, pulling tightly at them.

She took his hands. “My darling, stop. Hush now, mother’s here. What happened, my darling? Mother’s not angry with you, mother loves you. Tell me, my darling.”

He did not speak for long, lengthy moments. With every passing moment filled Sansa with more and more panic. The thoughts that raced in her mind could not be worse than the truth, yet she yearned for the answer to put her mind at rest.

“I’m so sorry, mother, I’m so sorry! He – he attacked me! He hit father! I – I pushed him! He hit his head... Mother, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry”

Sansa chewed her lip. “Tyran, Tyran my love. Keep calm and tell me. Who – who did you kill?”

Tyran let out a sob. “Mother, I’m sorry! I pushed him, I’m sorry, I didn’t think Robb would – would die.

It was as if time had stopped entirely. Sansa could hear the sound of her own heart. Her jaw dropped open. The sounds that came from Lady Stark was not audible over Tyran’s weeping. Gods did she want to feel anger towards her son, to hit him for what he had done to his brother, but she could not bring herself to do or say anything. Tyran would have preferred reaction from his mother than her stunned silence, and he put his hands to her face as she stared into his eyes: the colour of blood: red and puffy. Sansa never felt so frightened as she did then to be touched by her son.

“It was an accident! I’m sorry! Please - please don’t hate me mother, I’m _sorry._ ”

She didn’t say anything. Sansa didn’t move. She didn’t say anything. Sansa thought she was safe. She didn’t think harm could come to her sons, that they would live long and prosperous lives if she wed Tyrion and kept her peace with Joffrey. She did not know the true danger lied between a brotherly feud.

“Where is he?” Sansa demanded.

“In – in the hall! Mother don’t! Please don’t leave me!”

But Sansa had pushed Tyran away and was running to the hall before he could scream for her again. She could hear Tyran’s pleas not to leave him, to not hate him and to go back to him, but she ignored him. _He killed his brother. He killed my son._ He may have felt remorse but he had killed his brother with their father watching – that was how it seemed to Sansa.

It was a worse sight than his mother had expected.

Tyrion held the corpse of their son in his arms as he sobbed into his doublet. Arya and Rickon stood, taken aback by the scene, as did the Prince of Dorne who stood solemnly to one side. They all looked at Sansa when she entered the room, more frightened of her than they were of the corpse which lay bloody on the floor. She was the mother of the boy who had died at his brother’s own hands.

Everything was a daze. Sansa stumbled over to her son and husband, dropping to her knees beside them both. Robb was bloodied and battered, his head leaked with blood on the stone floor and on his father’s body. Soon it would cover Sansa’s dress. Tyrion’s hands were stained with blood, his face smeared with it to. Sansa extended a hand to touch the wound, but upon making contact she began to howl.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” Sansa screamed at Tyrion. “GET AWAY!”

“ _Sansa-_ ”

“-YOU SHOULD HAVE STOPPED THEM! THEY WERE FIGHTING! MY BABY! MY BABY BOY... _MY BABY_!”

Fat tears leaked from her face, rolling down her son’s. He was still a boy. He called himself a man grown, but dead in his mother’s arms he was nothing more than a baby. She could not bring herself to look anywhere but the son who lay lifeless in her arms. Robb was gone: the auburn haired babe she had held in her arms and named for her strong and powerful brother, the King in the North, Robb Stark was murdered by his own brother. That was only how Sansa could see it: murder.

She remembered how her father, and other men from their guard, had remarked that Brandon and Lyanna had Wolf blood – a trait Lord Eddard had not been burdened with: a quick temper, a fiery personality. Robb was said to have had it to. _I would sooner he be born a Lannister then he would not be dead before his time._

***

Tyrion was not often without words or without knowledge of what to do in a situation, but this was one of those times when the wisdom he had been born with was lost on him. Tyrion battled with his own grief. He had watched Tyran knock the life out of Robb, and stand by and done nothing as he nursed nothing more than a silly little cut. He had tried not to weep, to stay strong for when his wife and son arrived, but his son was _dead_.

He climbed onto his feet, stumbled to Rickon.

“Find my daughter. Bring her to her chambers. Guard her door. Arya... Arya go to Cas’ Nursery, do not allow _him_ in... Gods, someone needs to tell Grace – _oh ­_ – the children.”

“I’ll go,” offered the Prince of Dorne, dragging himself up from the bench. “I’m sorry,” he added to Tyrion. “I shall tell his wife.”

“Do you know where Alayne is?” Asked Rickon.

Fear struck through him. _What if Tyran kills her next_? The dwarf stumbled onto the bench, a little distance away from where his wife held their dead son, covered in blood now as he himself was. The cries she made were unbearable to listen to, but Tyrion could not block them out. When he did, he heard the cracking sound that Robb’s head made when it came into contact with the wooden bench, then the stone floor. He was paralyzed with fear, guilt and grief. His whole world seemed to have stopped around him.

***

Lord Eddard had built a small sept in the yard for his wife Lady Catelyn many, many years ago, shortly into the reign of King Robert Baratheon. Alayne had told Gerion all of this on the ride back from the Godswood to the Sept. It was Alayne’s ancestral home, as much of a part to her as Casterly Rock and the west were. Gerion insisted on her showing him for the last few days, eventually they found the time to do so.

There were a few people assembled at the front of the small sept: Alayne’s cousin Jon was one of them, as was Gerion’s eldest son Percy, and Alayne’s good-sister Grace. A Septon stood at the front of the sept between the Mother and the Father, and although Alayne had a faint idea why she had been assembled there with few people, she was still confused.

“I wanted to wed you before we left,” Gerion informed, leading Alayne through the pews. “Before anyone could tell us otherwise that we couldn’t.”

“Why can’t we wait until our families are here?”

“Fuck them,” Gerion decided. “We have our three witnesses, a Septon and a place of worship. Who gives a shit where the wedding takes place as long as it happens? What do you say Alayne: wed me before we go to war?”

There was a high change that Gerion would die in battle, and he knew that himself. Perhaps this was his last chance of happiness that they would be together at last, lawfully and under the watch of the Gods.

She accepted his not so romantic proposal, and within a few minutes, they were proclaimed to be man and wife, and Gerion planted a kiss on her lips before the Septon and their witnesses. Alayne wished she had dressed better for the occasion, that her father would give her to her husband, that Gerion would wrap her in their official family cloak and not the one from off his back, but she forgot all of that when Gerion kissed her gently at first, then harder, twisting his finger in her auburn hair, pushing against her back to pull her closer to him. It was a beautiful kiss: a true declaration of love and Alayne found herself that she couldn’t be happier.

“I’ve waited for this day for too long,” Gerion said between kisses. “I do truly love you.”

 _Tonight._ Alayne in all the euphoria of Gerion’s proposal, she had forgotten about consummating the marriage. Alayne found herself tensing up, and denying Gerion of another kiss, to which she smiled and told him to wait until later, though he could see the worry in her face. The young man knew better than to confront her on it in front of a crowd. _Gerion will understand... He loves me._ She _would_ give herself to Gerion that night as tradition states, because she wanted their wedding to be as real as possible.   _So why marry him without your family here?_

The doors to the sept opened wide, taking them all by surprise at the mass of sunlight that shot through the room. Alayne squinted to see who had crashed their wedding to see that it was her Uncle Rickon, marching towards them. _How does he know_ what we have done?

“Alayne, you need to get back to the castle, _now_!”

“How – how did they find out about this?” Alayne asked.

“What are you talking about? No, your father sent me to find you and take you back to Winterfell! _Gods_ _you haven’t wed him, have you_?”

Gerion put his arm around his new wife’s waist. “So what if I have?”

“You couldn’t have chosen a worse day.”

“Why?” Grace came to the front, panic struck. “What’s happened?”

“ _Gods_ ,” Rickon breathed. “Both of you need to go back to the castle. There’s been an accident.”

“What accident?” Alayne demanded.

“Your Lord Father wants to tell you himself, Alayne. You need to go back to your chambers-”

It was Grace: meek and quiet Grace who grabbed Lord Rickon’s shoulders. “What accident, Rickon? I am Lady of Winterfell, I demand that you tell me.”

Rickon was reluctant to do so, and hung his head. “Your father will kill me, Alayne-”

“-Tell me Rickon.”

Rickon looked at Grace, then at Alayne. His face was filled with sympathy; she had never seen her estranged Uncle look so kind. It was very different to the quick tempered man she was used to.

“I’m really sorry, Grace, Alayne. I don’t know how to... Robb’s died.”

It was Grace who fled the Sept first, not Alayne. Alayne was too shocked to move, to comprehend what she had been told. He was so healthy and so charismatic. She had broken her fast with him just that morning, kissed him goodbye as he saw her to the yard where she mounted her horse with Gerion. He was so happy and filled with life, how could he be dead?

Gerion prompted her to leave the Sept, summoning his son to leave as well and run ahead with Jon, who gave his cousin a sympathetic look before challenging the little boy to a race to the castle to keep him occupied and unaware of what had befallen the castle.

From the sept to Winterfell, it was not far but it seemed to last an eternity. Robb could not be dead. He was young, fit and healthy. He could not be dead. This was Robb... He must be playing dead... _he must be_...

Alayne heard the cries when she entered the castle, when the soft snow underneath her feet turned into cold stone. Both Gerion and Rickon attempted to escort her to her chambers, but Alayne battled against them both.

Nobody had thought to move his body, and whoever tried to would have faced great difficulty.

Both mother and wife clung to each other in raging fits of sobs. It was near impossible to register what was happening. Her brother, her favourite companion lay dead slumped across the laps of his young wife and mother who held each other and cried. Alayne stood dumbfounded, her knees loose and was grateful that she had Gerion holding her to keep upright. Five minutes ago she had been saying her vows in the sight of the Seven. Now, she was watching her mother curse the Seven for taking her son.

“Alayne,” she heard the familiar voice of her father. “Go to your chambers. You don’t need to see this.”

He had been crying too. She had never seen her father cry. Alayne had seen him angry, drunk, jealous, seething, frightened and happy, but she had never seen him cry. Alayne pitied him – she envied that he would so openly show his grief while Alayne could not. She did not feel much emotion towards the death of her brother, and she knew why.

He had abandoned her in the capitol. Abandoned her, left her to be raped, beaten and abused. Left her while Lucian’s body was still warm. He had taken all their family with him. She had wished him dead multiple times, but never thought it would happen. She would mourn him because he was her big brother and she loved him, but she could not cry for him because he was the man who had left her in the Red Keep to be taken as and when Ser Deryn pleased.

“No,” Alayne disagreed. “I do.”

“Not like this. Go to your chambers.”

“No,” she echoed. “I won’t.”

He took her hand, rubbing her knuckles with her thumb. Alayne crossed the room and sat on the bench opposite to where her brother lay dead in the arms of two women who loved him most. Alayne thought she should join them and cry, but her grief would only be an act. _He left me. Because of him I was raped and had a child put in me. He left me. I killed my child because of him. I hate him. He left me._

“How did it happen?” Alayne asked her father.

“You don’t need to know this-”

“-Stop trying to protect me, father. I want to know how my brother died.”

“Tyran had a babe on Alyse. They started to fight: Robb and Tyran, and one thing lead to another and-”

“-No,” Alayne breathed. “No I won’t believe it.”

“I saw it, Alayne. I saw it all.”

“No,” she whispered. “He didn’t – he wouldn’t.”

 _Not after what she did to me._ He wouldn’t put a child on her knowing what she did to her. _But he didn’t know._ Tyran didn’t know Alyse sent men to rape her. Tyran didn’t know what Alyse was capable of and that was the issue. He put a child on her. He put the sweet babe on the Queen that Alayne had desired for so many years. Instead Ser Deryn had put a _monster_ on her.

“Where is he?” Alayne demanded. “ _Where is Tyran_?”

There was a long silence that followed. “I don’t know.”

***

Tyran was panicked.

His mother left him, pushed him aside as he screamed for her to return to him, to not hate him for what he had done. Tyran had not meant to kill his brother; he loved Robb. They fought, but he had only pushed him because Robb hit their father. If he thought he would hit his head... Crack his head... Tyran would never have done it! He didn’t mean to kill his brother! He loved his brother. He loved his brother. _He loved his brother._

Now his brother was dead. His mother would hate him. His father would want to kill him. His sister could never look at him again. Tyran had killed the father of four innocent children, the man who had wed his wife out of honour and love. He had killed the last Stark of Winterfell, leaving Winterfell with an heir not even at the age of two.

He couldn’t stay here a moment longer.

Tyran crawled to the door and pulled himself up. He caught a glimpse of himself in his mother’s looking glass. He was covered in blood and most of it was Robb’s. Tyran looked a mess, but he didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered. Every little thing Tyran had once cared about vanished in an instant with his brother’s death.

But he couldn’t stay here any longer. He had killed his brother, his family would want justice. Grace would kill him, one day Eddard and William would grow to learn of what their uncle had done and seek their revenge. Tyran couldn’t stay here anymore. He had to go.

But where? He wouldn’t make it on the road on his own alive. He could go to Casterly Rock, but he would have no men to go with him. It was midday; he could not vanish with his entire host without drawing attention to himself. Tyran would have to go alone, with one horse and a small amount of possessions: a purse of gold and a new set of clothes. He would need Caster too; he wouldn’t leave his.

Tyran stumbled to his son’s chambers, but the door was guarded by Arya. He groaned when he saw her, but she had her hand on the pommel of her sword the second she saw him.

“Let me pass,” Tyran demanded.

“No.”

“He’s my _son_.”

“Robb was your brother!”

So it was too late to escape. The castle already knew what he had done. His sister would learn the truth. Grace would learn the truth and they would all start looking for him. Robb’s children would one day learn the truth...

“You think I would kill my son?”

“I won’t let you,” his aunt drew her sword, challenging him. He backed up a few paces.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Arya.”

“I won’t let you.”

He wouldn’t hurt her, he wouldn’t add hurting his aunt to the list of shitty things he had done in his life. None would top becoming a kinslayer. That was a special little milestone in Tyran’s life that would always stand at the top.

“Where’s Jon?” Tyran sneered. “Bet I can get to him first. Make the decision: I either get my son safely while your head is turned, or I get your son and bring you _his_ head. Have we got an agreement?”

“I’ll kill you.”

He eyed her skinny sword. “I could break that in half if you lay it on me as easily as I could break your son’s neck in half. Now let me past.”

She stepped aside; clearly the life of her own son was more important to her than the life of Tyran’s. The Warden of the West gave her a smile and shot through the room to his son’s crib.

“Shh... Hello Caster... Hello my boy... Come with father... Father will look after you... Good boy, stay asleep. Good boy.”

As he held Caster in his arms, he began to gather as much of his son’s belongings as he could. Caster had a few toys, so he emptied them into a small brown sack that was tucked away under the infant’s wardrobe. He filled the sack with the little boy’s clothes, then left the room, giving it one last look before he stepped out into the corridor. Arya was gone by now, which would not give Tyran much time.

He threw the small bag containing Caster’s belongings into a larger one that belonged to Tyran. In the brown bag, he filled it with a dagger, a large fat purse of gold dragons and a few garments of clothing. Tyran put Quickblade in its sheath and slung the sack over his shoulder as he held a thankfully peacefully sleeping Caster in his arms.

Tyran ran as quickly as possible down through the castle as he could. His chambers were at the highest point of the castle in one of the towers, so it was a long and painful run with an infant in one arm and a sack of belongings in another. He reached the bottom of the steps and ran through the final corridor, avoiding the Great Hall at all costs and made it into the winter snow.

Crossing the yard, Tyran entered the stables, throwing his sack onto the floor and gently nestling Caster into it, he pulled out the largest horse which belonged to his brother – _had once belonged to his brother_ – and quickly saddled it. He rolled Caster onto a bale of hay as he attached the sack onto the saddle. It would weigh a lot, it would not be easy to ride, but the horse was large and should be able to carry the weight. If not, they were screwed.

Tyran mounted the horse with his son in his arms and kicked his heels into the folly and strode out the stables. He could not make a getaway until he was out of the yard and onto the Kingsroad. It was near impossible to ride with his son in his arms.

“TYRAN! TYRAN STOP!”

Tyran did not stop to see who was shouting him for he recognised the voice of his sister instantly. The sound of Alayne calling his name was sweet and gentle and calming, he wanted to stop and explain himself, but if he did they would see him and stop him.

She had always been his favourite, even if Robb had always been hers. Killing Ser Deryn for her had been nothing compared to the love he felt for his darling Alayne. If Caster had been born a girl, Tyran would have honoured her as her namesake.

But he ignored the voice and galloped out of the yard of Winterfell and it would be the last time he would see Winterfell again.

***

Arya entered the Great Hall, panic-stricken which was not an unusual sight for the current situation that they were in. She made route for Alayne, Gerion and Tyrion who had relocated from the middle of the Hall to the doorway. Tyrion’s cut was oozing with blood, but he either did not notice or did not care.

“Tyran’s got Caster,” Arya whispered.

“You let him take him?”

“He gave me the choice between the life of Jon and Caster. Who the fuck do you think I’m going to pick?”

“He’s running away,” Alayne realised.

“Good riddance,” Arya snorted.

“He is my _son_. Find him, Arya,” but Arya did not move. “ _Arya_ , he is your _nephew-_ ”

“-Who murdered my other nephew. Good riddance I say. Let him die on the road.”

She was a cold hearted bitch Alayne decided: a cold hearted bitch who was too craven to defend a little boy’s life. Tyran would never hurt Jon, he would never hurt Caster either – but as a mother, it was too high a risk to take. Perhaps Arya was not craven to choose the life of her son. Perhaps Alayne was craven to kill her own.

“We’ll find him,” Gerion decided. “We’ll go to the stables, come Alayne.”

Alayne took the arm of her husband and they left the Hall. Still, their marriage was unknown to the family. It was eerie. Her brother’s corpse lay in that room and she was out chasing the murderer to bring him back to the family. Would they resent him? He had killed Robb – by accident he claimed. Grace and Sansa had been saddened by the loss the most. They would not embrace Tyran warmly.

“How are you?” Gerion asked as they walked the castle.

“I’ve had better days.”

“If we want to catch him we’ll have to move quicker.”

They started into a light sprint, Alayne pulled up her skirts around her ankles to run. The harsh air hit her as soon as she stepped out of the castle, but she could see Robb’s horse with a different rider move through the yard.

“TYRAN!” She yelled. “TYRAN! STOP!”

Alayne and Gerion ran to the stables, grabbing a horse that would carry them both and mounted it without saddle, taking it from a stable boy who looked astonished. Gerion foolishly galloped out of the stables, knocking buckets of water and rakes and saddles off the shelves and on the floor, causing the horse to stumble almost over, but it picked up its speed once it was in the yard and out onto the Kingsroad.

***

It did not take long for them to catch up with him, and with a screaming babe in his arms Tyran had little option but to stop riding. He kicked his heels into the side of the badly saddled horse, cursing and waited for his sister and Ser Gerion to catch up to him. They were the lesser of the others who could have ridden after him.

“Don’t go,” Alayne shouted before they were at level with Tyran, “please don’t go.”

“Alayne, I have to. You’ve seen what I’ve done.”

Their horses stood side by side, nudging one another. Gerion and Alayne were out of breath, Caster still screamed in Tyran’s arms. “It was an accident – they all know that. Come on Ty, come back to the castle. You don’t need to runaway. No one blames you for this; it was just a fight that got out of hand.”

“You should have seen the way mother looked at me,” Tyran claimed.

“You should have seen the way she screamed as she cradled our brother’s body. Please don’t go, Tyran; you have a babe now! You cannot ride the road with Caster; it will kill him. Do you want your son _dead_?”

“No,” Tyran admitted. “But what else can I do?”

“Come back to the castle and settle things! We don’t have to go to war, but we need to sort this out. You fleeing just minutes after his death looks suspicious, people will think you did it on purpose-”

“-But I didn’t!”

***

If seeing her father cry had been a shock to Alayne, seeing her brother cry had been a worse one. It was in fact, seeing Tyran cry that caused Alayne to start to sob.

“We know that! Come back, Tyran! If not for you then for Caster. He won’t survive out here without proper food or shelter or clothes! Come back, Ty. Come back.”

“I can’t! I killed my brother. They all hate me and want to kill me, I can’t go back, I can’t go back, I can’t go back.”

“Then we’re coming with you,” Gerion decided abruptly. “We’re not leaving you and Caster.”

“You have your own sons-” That had caught Gerion off guard, but Tyran merely shook his head and looked over the hills of the north. “Do they hate me for it?”

“No,” Alayne answered honestly. “They don’t – I swear by the Old Gods and the New that they don’t. They’re just upset obviously – please don’t go Tyran; I can’t lose two brothers. Please don’t leave me. _I need you_.”

***

He felt bad for his baby sister. Robb had abandoned her with his host only for Tyran to save her. If Tyran left and with Robb dead there would be nobody left to save her. If he was to stay for any reason, it would be Alayne.

“I killed Ser Deryn,” Tyran confessed. “I killed Ser Deryn because he raped you. I killed Robb because he left you-”

“-No you didn’t!” She began to scream now. “You killed him because he hit father, because you’re honourable and a good man and you shouldn’t abandon your family when they need you most. They might hate you to begin with, but someone needs to be a father to Robb’s children! They don’t stand a chance without you or him! Please Tyran! Please don’t leave us.”

He choked out his tears. “I love you Alayne.”

“Tyran, please don’t go! Caster won’t... _Tyran please_!”

Caster screamed louder than he had done before now that there were more of them. How stupid was he to believe that Caster would live safely on the road? He needed milk, warmth, love, his family, a safe home, loving environment: not a murderous father who fled from responsibilities.

“Take him,” Tyran coughed. “Take my son and go.”

“Tyran, no-”

He held out his son for them to take, but they stayed rooted to the spot. They stared at him as if he was a cannon, ready to explode at anytime. Both were frightened of him, what he would do or how he would react.

“TAKE HIM! TAKE HIM! TAKE HIM! I’M SORRY! TAKE HIM! TAKE HIM!”

Gerion reached out and took the screaming babe from his father as the Warden of the West cut free the brown bag that hung from his horse. It might have been raining or it might not have been, his eyes were so wet with tears he didn’t know anymore.

“Tell Caster I love him, that I’m sorry. Tell them all that I’m sorry.”

“Tyran,” Alayne choked. “Where are you going to go?”

“Where I should have stayed,” he sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “To the Red Keep: to Alyse. I’ll be King and I’ll be a good King to the babe I gave her. Bring him to me soon. I love him. I’m sorry Caster. I’m _so sorry_.”

“Be careful,” Gerion advised. “You still have another chance.”

“I don’t,” Tyran disagreed. “Not anymore. Life isn’t a song – if mine is then it’s a funeral march. Never believe what mother told us about happy endings Alayne; they don’t exist.”

“I got it today,” Alayne whispered through tears. “I got it with him.”

Tyran smiled despite everything, laughing with the newly wedded couple. “Be good to her, Gerion. Bring me my son. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

With one last look at his son, the beautiful babe with the green eyes and golden hair and perfect physique, Tyran galloped away from his sister and good brother and son. He heard Alayne screaming in the distance but did not hear the sound of hoofs in his pursuit. Alayne could not have had a better or more reliable or loving husband than Gerion. It was just a shame he could not be there to witness their marriage.

***

Sansa lost all of her children that day. She lost her eldest child to guilt, the middle to death and Alayne to Ser Gerion, who had wed her in secret shortly before they learned the news that Tyran had murdered her brother. Then she lost her unborn child, to which she discovered the following morning when she woke up to a bloody sheet after fatigue overcame her.

She lost Tyrion a few moons later too. He died in the bed beside: the same bed she’d lost their child in. The same bed Tyran had told her he’d killed Robb. The Maester told Sansa it was due to the cold, but Sansa knew better. It was heartbreak. He might not have known about the child who lived for a few moons in Sansa’s belly, but he knew about the son’s he had lost to one another.

But the biggest tragedy from all of the Lannister children was one that happened five months after the murder of Robb Stark in the Great Hall.

It took Tyran Lannister indeed five moons to travel to the Red Keep from the far north, of which time he was bloodied and battered and was forced to make the ride on foot after he sold his horse for a small amount of gold coins. _How far I have come, Grandfather._ Tyran would curse his whole bloody family everyday – especially his Grandfather for what he had come to do.

But he made it to the Red Keep alive, and made his way into court upon being recognised by Haelan Tyrell.

“Is it true what the letters say? You killed your brother?”

“Accident.”

The Tyrell boy frowned. “Why did you come here?”

“Alyse.”

“You need to have a bath first. I’ll draw one for you and you can change into my clothes.”

Tyran did all of that. It was the first bath he had in five months, the first time he had not worn these ragged garments which modestly covered his body, though they were torn and bloodied and battered quite like himself.

It took an hour to scrub the dirt out of his hair, body and fingernails. His hair was back to golden, his face – though hollow and gaunt – was beautiful as it had once been. The clothes Haelan gave to him were a little large, but not noticeably large he looked as if to be drowning in them. The ones he had chosen were gold with Tyrell roses. It had obviously not been a coincidence.

By the time Tyran was ready to see Queen Alyse, court was over and she was in her solar. The Lord of Tyrell escorted him to her solar, and with every passing footstep and second Tyran grew more and more nervous. Would she still love him after he waged a war on her? She must do... They said vows to one another. He had her child on her.

She was stretched out on her lounger when he saw her, draped in thin cloth as servants waved goose feathers at her. Her golden hair fell around her body, down to her _slim_ waist, covering her breasts. Alyse looked stunned to see Tyran in her solar, and propped herself up on her elbow, resting her pretty face in her hand, dismissing everybody out of her chambers so that it was only she and Tyran.

“Walk with me,” she demanded.

He did as she commanded, and when she rose from the lounger Tyran was too much in a daze to comprehend anything. Alyse gave him a light kiss on his cheek, took his arm and they left. She was taking him to the Throne Room – to kill him, maybe? He had attempted to rebel against her after all. Death was what he deserved.

“I’m sorry to hear about Robb,” she sounded sincerely apologetic. “I know you didn’t mean to do it. When they told me you murdered him, I knew it must have been a mistake.”

“I defended father. That was all.”

They entered the Throne Room, the guards let them in. It had not changed with Alyse’s reign. The hall was lit with giant torch flames, golden ivy decorations seeped up the pillars and the Iron Throne towered above them all, forged out of a thousand steel swords.

“Did you ride this way all yourself?” Tyran nodded. “You must be exhausted.”

“Later. Later I’ll sleep.”

“Why did you come?” Alyse questioned. “To kill me?”

“Never.”

“Then why?”

He studied her. He studied her face, the golden hair that tumbled out of her head, shaped her face so perfectly and fell down to her slim waist. _Slim waist._

“I-I thought... My child.”

The Queen frowned at him. “I got rid of it.”

His brother had died because of this babe.

They had fought because of this babe. Because of this babe, Tyran had cracked his brother’s head on the corner of the wooden bench and he had died. Robb had died for nothing.

“Tyran I didn’t think you were coming back. It had been five moons since I sent you the letter, and I – I couldn’t raise this babe on my own. This bastard without a claim.”

_His brother had died for nothing._

“I’m so sorry Tyran, but we can make another! We can make other beautiful babes to be King and Queen, to have as brothers and sisters for your darling little Caster!”

_His brother had died for nothing._

“Please my darling, say something to me. I still love you. _Nothing_ has changed. I have loved you since I was a little girl and I will love you long into my reign and after my death. My darling, I am sorry. I am sorry I couldn’t wait for you! So – so yesterday – I had to! The potion – I never should have - I’m so sorry, Tyran... I’m so sorry...”

_His brother had died for nothing._

Quickblade felt like a tumour on his thigh. It had been the one possession Tyran could not bear to part with. It was his legacy. A Valyrian Steel sword that had been the Stark’s Greatsword Ice, then his Uncle Jaime’s Oathkeeper, Prince Tommen’s Myrcella and now Tyran’s Quickblade.

He had not yet killed anyone with his sword, but standing here with Alyse, learning that she had murdered their babe the day before he arrived, it did not feel good enough to waste such a sword on this moment, but Tyran was left with no other alternative.

He reached for the Lion head pommel with the sparkling eyes. Alyse was not aware of his actions.

_I killed my brother._

_You killed our child._

_They died for nothing._

His Grandfather would get his Lannister King, and there would not even need to be a war to claim it: merely the swing of a sword and the splatter of blood and the long, tiring climb up the steps of the Iron Throne with a golden crown on his golden hair, stolen from the sun, and Tyran Lannister became the first lion to sit the Iron Throne.

Long may he reign.


End file.
